MY  FOUR  WEEKS 
|  IN  FRANCE  | 

RING  W.  LARDNER 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 


A  password  was  what  he  wanted,  and  Mr.   Poincare   had   for- 
gotten to  give  me  the  correct  one 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS 
IN  FRANCE 


RING  W.  LARDNER 

AUTHOR  OF 

Gullible's  Travels,  Etc. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 


WALLACE  MORGAN 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


copyright  1918 
The  Bobbs-Merbiix  Company 


PRESS  OF 

BRAUNWORTH    &   CO. 

BOOK    MANUFACTURERS 

BROOKLYN,    N.   Y. 


i 


X>6  140 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    Dodging  Submarines  to  Cover  the  Biggest 

Game  of  All 9 

II    I  Get  to  Paris  and  Encounter  Some  Strange 

Sights 30 

III  I  Try  to  Get  to  the  American  Camp — But 

Meet  Disaster 54 

IV  Finally    I    Get   to   the   American    Camp; 

What  I  Find  There 76 

V    My  Adventures  at  the  British  Front    .     .     100 

VI     How  I  Didn't  Drive  Major  Blank's  Car  to 

Camp  Such-and-Such 128 

VII     I  Start  Home,  with  a  Stop-Over  at  London     146 

VIII     Back  in  Old  "O  Say";   I  Start  Answering 

Questions 171 


477154 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN 
FRANCE 


DODGING  SUBMARINES  TO  COVER  THE 
BIGGEST  GAME  OF  ALL 

Wednesday,  July  18.     A  Lake  Michigan  Port. 

I  kept  an  appointment  to-day  with  a  gentleman 
from  Somewhere  in  Connecticut. 

"How,"  said  he,  "would  }-ou  like  to  go  to 
France?" 

I  told  him  I'd  like  it  very  much,  but  that  I  was 
thirty-two  years  old,  with  a  dependable  wife  and 
three  unreliable  children. 

"Those  small  details,"  he  said,  "exempt  you  from 
military  duty.  But  we  want  you  as  a  war  corre- 
spondent." 

I  told  him  I  knew  nothing  about  war.    He  said  it 

9 


10       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

had  frequently  been  proved  that  that  had  nothing  to 
do  with  it.  So  we  hemmed  and  we  hawed,  pro  and 
con,  till  my  conscientious  objections  were  all  over- 
ruled. 

"In  conclusion,"  said  he,  "we'd  prefer  to  have 
you  go  on  a  troopship.  That  can  be  arranged 
through  the  War  Department.  There'll  be  no 
trouble  about  it." 

Monday,  July  30.     A  Potomac  Port. 

To-day  I  took  the  matter  up  with  the  War  De- 
partment, through  Mr.  Creel. 

"Mr.  Creel,"  I  said,  "can  I  go  on  a  troopship?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Creel. 

There  was  no  trouble  about  it. 

Wednesday,  August  1.     An  Atlantic  Port. 

The  young  man  in  the  French  Consulate  has 
taken  a  great  fancy  to  me.  He  will  not  vise  my 
passport  till  I  bring  him  two  more  autographed 
pictures  of  myself. 

George  W.  Gloom  of  the  steamship  company  said 
there  would  be  a  ship  sailing  Saturday. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE        11 

"Arc  we  convoyed  through  the  danger  zone?" 
I  inquired. 

"We  don't  guarantee  it,"  said  he.  "There  has 
never  been  an  accident  on  this  line,"  lie  added. 

"What  I  was  thinking  about,"  said  I,  "wouldn't 
be  classed  as  an  accident."  Further  questioning 
developed  the  comforting  fact  that  the  ship  I  am 
taking  has  never  been  sunk. 

I  told  him  I  wanted  a  cabin  to  myself,  as  I  ex- 
pected to  work. 

"You  will  be  in  with  two  others,"  he  said. 

"I  would  pay  a  little  more  to  be  alone,"  said  I. 

This  evidently  was  not  worth  answering,  so  I 
asked  him  how  long  the  trip  would  take. 

"I  know  nothing  about  it,"  said  he. 

"I  believe  that,"  said  I  when  I  was  well  out  of 
his  ear-shot. 

Wednesday,  August  8.     At  Sea. 

We  left  port  at  ten  last  night,  a  mere  three  and 
a  half  days  behind  schedule.  The  ship  and  I  should 
be  very  congenial,  as  we  are  about  the  same  age. 

My  roommates  are  a  young  man  from  Harvard 


12       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

and  a  young  man  from  Yale,  but  so  far  I  have  man- 
aged to  keep  the  conversation  neutral.  We  suspect 
that  they  made  ours  a  first-class  cabin  by  substitut- 
ing the  word  lere  for  Seme  on  the  sign,  and  I  am 
very  certain  that  my  berth  was  designed  for  Rab- 
bit Maranville. 

Our  passenger  list  includes  a  general,  a  congress- 
man, a  lady  novelist  and  her  artist  husband,  French ; 
a  songbird,  also  French;  two  or  three  majors,  a 
Thaw,  and  numerous  gentlemen  of  the  consular 
service.  The  large  majority  on  board  are  young 
men  going  into  American  Ambulance  and  Y.  M. 
C.  A.  work. 

After  breakfast  this  morning  there  was  life-boat 
drill,  directed  by  our  purser,  who  is  permanently 
made  up  as  Svengali.  He  sent  us  down  to  our 
cabins  to  get  our  life-belts  and  then  assigned  us  to 
our  boats.  Mine,  No.  12,  is  as  far  from  my  cabin 
as  they  could  put  it  without  cutting  it  loose  from 
the  ship,  and  if  I  happen  to  be  on  deck  when  that 
old  torpedo  strikes,  believe  me,  I'm  not  going  to  do  a 
Marathon  for  a  life-belt.  Shoes  off,  and  a  running 
hop,   step   and  jump  looks  like  the  best  system. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       13 

Moreover,  I'm  going  to  disobey  another  of  the  rules, 
which  is  that  each  passenger  must  remain  calm. 

Next  we  had  to  fill  out  a  form  for  the  enlighten- 
ment of  Svengali  as  to  our  destination,  business, 
home  address,  foreign  address,  literary  tastes,  etc. 
One  item  was  "the  names  of  relatives  or  friends 
you  lofh."  This  was  unanswered,  as  nobody  aboard 
seemed  to  know  the  meaning  of  the  verb. 

In  the  fumoir  this  afternoon  a  young  American 
wanted  a  match.  He  consulted  his  dictionary  and 
dug  out  "allumettc."  But  he  thought  the  fs  were 
silent  and  asked  Auguste  for  "allumajv'  Auguste 
disappeared  and  returned  in  five  minutes  with  a 
large  glass  of  lemonade.  The  cost  of  that  little 
French  lesson  was  two  francs. 

I  am  elected  to  eat  at  the  "second  table."  Our 
bunch  has  luncheon  at  twelve-thirty  and  dinner  at 
seven.  The  first  table  crowd's  hours  are  eleven  and 
five-thirty.  Breakfast  is  a  free-for-all  and  we  sit 
where  we  choose.  My  trough  mates  at  the  meals 
are  two  Americans,  a  Brazilian,  and  four  French- 
men. Ours  is  a  stag  table,  which  unfortunate  cir- 
cumstance is  due  to  the  paucity  of  women,  or,  as 


14.       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

they  are  sometimes  called,  members  of  the  fair  sex. 
The  Brazilian  speaks  nine  or  ten  languages,  but 
seems  to  prefer  French.  The  two  Americans  are 
always  engaged  in  sotto  voce  dialogue,  and  the  four 
Frenchmen  race  with  the  Brazilian  for  the  conver- 
sational speed  championship  of  the  high  seas.  This 
leaves  me  free  to  devote  all  my  time  to  the  proper 
mastication  of  food. 

Thursday,  August  9.     Completely  at  Sea. 

A  gentleman  on  be :  "d  is  supplied  with  one  of 
these  newfangled  one  hundred  dollar  safety  suits. 
The  wearer  is  supposed  to  be  able  to  float  indefi- 
nitely. It  is  also  a  sort  of  thermos  bottle,  keeping 
one  warm  in  cold  water  and  cool  in  hot.  I  do  not 
envy  the  gent.  I  have  no  ambition  to  float  indefi- 
nitely. And  if  I  didn't  happen  to  have  it  on  when 
the  crash  came,  I  doubt  whether  I  could  spare  the 
time  to  change.  And  besides,  if  I  ever  do  feel  that 
I  can  afford  one  hundred  dollars  for  a  suit,  I  won't 
want  to  wear  it  for  the  edification  of  mere  fish. 

When  Svengali  isn't  busy  pursing,  he  is  usually 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       15 

engaged  in  chess  matches  with  another  of  the  offi- 
cers. The  rest  of  the  idle  portion  of  the  crew  stand 
round  the  table  and  look  on.  Sometimes  they  look 
on  for  an  hour  without  seeing  a  move  made,  but 
they  never  seem  to  lose  interest.  Every  little  move- 
ment brings  forth  a  veritable  torrent  of  francais 
from  the  spectators.  I  can  understand  the  fascina- 
tion of  chess  from  the  player's  end,  but  could  get 
few  thrills  from  watching,  especially  when  there 
was  standing  room  only. 

Far  more  fascinating  to  look  at  is  the  game  two 
of  my  French  trough  mates  play  at  breakfast.  The 
rules  are  simple.  You  take  a  muffin  about  the  size 
of  a  golf  ball.  You  drop  it  into  your  cup  of  choco- 
late. Then  you  fish  for  it,  sometimes  with  a  spoon, 
but  more  often  with  your  fingers.  The  object  is  to 
convey  it  to  your  mouth  without  discoloring  }Tour 
necktie.     Success  comes  three  times  in  five. 

The  players  are  about  evenly  matched.  One  of 
them  I  suspect,  is  not  in  the  game  for  sport's  sake, 
but  has  a  worthier  object.  Nature  supplied  him 
with  a  light  gray  mustache,  and  a  chocolate  brown 


16       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

would  blend  better  with  his  complexion.  If  the 
muffins  hold  out,  his  color  scheme  will  be  perfect  be- 
fore we  reach  port. 

The  discovery  has  been  made  that  there's  a  man 
on  board  who  plays  the  cornet,  so  if  we  are  subbed 
it  will  not  be  an  unmitigated  evil. 

Friday,  August  10. 

Every  morning  one  sees  on  the  deck  people  one 
never  saw  before,  and  as  we  have  not  stopped  at 
any  stations  since  we  started,  the  inference  is  that 
certain  parties  have  not  found  the  trip  a  continuous 
joy  ride. 

A  news  bulletin,  published  every  morning,  some- 
times in  English  and  sometimes  in  French,  keeps 
us  right  up  to  date  on  thrilling  events,  thrillingly 
spelled.    I  have  copied  a  sample : 

It  is  now  the  tim  for  the  final  invaseon  of  the  west 
by  the  eastren  american  league  teams  and  before 
this  clash  is  over  it  will  be  definitively  known  wether 
the  two  sox  teams  are  to  fight  it  out  in  a  nip  and  tuJc 
finish  or  wether  the  Chicago  sox  will  have  a  comfort- 
able mar  gen  to  insure  a  world  series  betwean  the  two 
largest  American  citys  Chicago  and  New  York. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       17 

The  French  news  deals  exclusively  with  the  de- 
velopments in  the  world  series  Over  There,  which 
is,  perhaps,  almost  as  important. 

A  new  acquaintance  made  to-day  was  that  of  the 
Gentleman  from  Louisiana.  He  introduced  himself 
to  scold  me  and  another  guy  for  not  taking  suffi- 
cient exercise.  We  told  him  we  found  little  pleasure 
in  promenading  the  deck. 

"That's  unnecessary,"  he  said.  "Get  yourselves 
a  pair  of  three-pound  dumb-bells  and  use  them  a 
certain  length  of  time  every  day." 

So  we  are  constantly  on  the  lookout  for  a  dumb- 
bell shop,  but  there  seems  to  be  a  regrettable  lack 
of  such  establishments  in  mid-ocean. 

The  Gentleman  from  Louisiana  says  he  is  going 
to  join  the  Foreign  Legion  if  they'll  take  him.  He 
is  only  seventy  years  old. 

"But  age  makes  no  difference  to  a  man  like  I," 
says  he.  "I  exercise  and  keep  hard.  All  my  friends 
are  hard  and  tough.  Why,  one  of  my  friends,  an 
undertaker,  always  carries  a  razor  in  his  boot." 

Presumably  this  bird  never  allows  psychological 
depression  in  his  business. 


18       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

The  Gentleman  from  Louisiana  continues : 

"I've  got  a  reputation  for  hardness,  but  I'm  only 
hard  when  I  know  I'm  right.  I  used  such  hard 
language  once  that  they  injected  me  from  a  com- 
mittee. I  was  state  senator  then.  But  in  all  the 
time  I  held  office  I  never  talked  more  than  two 
minutes." 

We  expressed  polite  regret  that  he  was  not  a 
state  senator  still.  And  we  asked  him  to  have  a 
lemonade. 

"No,  thank  you.  Even  the  softest  drinks  have  a 
peculiar  effect  on  me.  They  make  my  toes  stick 
together." 

We  guaranteed  to  pry  those  members  apart  again 
after  he  had  quenched  his  thirst,  but  he  would  not 
take  a  chance. 

On  the  way  cabinward  from  this  fascinating  pres- 
ence, I  was  invited  into  a  crap  game  on  the  salle  a 
manger  floor.  The  gentleman  with  the  dice  tossed 
a  hundred- franc  note  into  the  ring  and  said:  "Shoot 
it  all."  And  the  amount  was  promptly  oversub- 
scribed.    So  I  kept  on  going  cabinward. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE        19 

Samedi,  11  Aout. 

The  man  back  there  in  the  steamship  office  can  no 
more  truthfully  say:  "There  has  never  been  an 
accident  on  this  line." 

I  awoke  at  three-thirty  this  morning1  to  find  the 
cabin  insufferabl}7  hot  and  opened  the  port-hole 
which  is  directly  above  my  berth.  The  majority  of 
the  ocean  immediately  left  its  usual  haunts  and  came 
indoors.  Yale  and  Harvard  were  given  a  shower 
bath  and  I  had  a  choice  of  putting  on  the  driest 
things  I  could  find  and  going  on  deck  or  drowning 
where  I  lay.  The  former  seemed  the  preferable 
course. 

Out  there  I  found  several  fellow  voyagers  asleep 
in  their  chairs  and  a  watchman  in  a  red-and-white 
tam-o'-shanter  scanning  the  bounding  main  for  old 
Hans  W.  Periscope. 

I  wanted  sympathy,  but  the  watchman  informed 
me  that  he  ne  comprended  pas  anglais,  monsieur. 
So  we  stood  there  together  and  scanned,  each  in  his 
own  language. 


20       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

My  garcon  de  cabine  promises  he  will  have  me 
thoroughly  bailed  out  by  bedtime  to-night. 

I  sat  at  a  different  breakfast  table,  but  there  was 
no  want  of  entertainment.  At  my  side  was  a  master 
of  both  anglais  and  francais,  and  opposite  him  an 
American  young  lady  who  thinks  French  is  simply 
just  impossible  to  learn. 

"Mademoiselle,"  says  he,  "must  find  it  difficult  to 
get  what  she  likes  to  eat." 

"I  certainly  do,"  says  she.  "I  don't  understand  a 
word  of  what's  on  the  menu  card." 

"Perhaps  I  can  help  mademoiselle,"  says  he. 
"Would  she  like  perhaps  a  grapefruit?" 

She  would  and  she'd  also  like  oatmeal  and  eggs 
and  coffee.  So  he  steered  her  straight  through  the 
meal  with  almost  painful  politeness,  but  in  the  in- 
tervals when  he  wasn't  using  his  hands  as  an  aid  to 
gallant  discourse,  he  was  manicuring  himself  with 
a  fork. 

This  afternoon  they  drug  me  into  a  bridge  game. 
My  partner  was  our  congressman's  secretary.  Our 
opponents  were  a  Standard  Oil  official  and  a  vice- 
consul  bound  for  Italy.    My  partner's  middle  name 


o 
o 


C 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       21 

was  Bid  and  Mr.  Oil's  was  Double.  And  I  was  too 
shy  to  object  when  they  said  we'd  play  for  a  cent  a 
point. 

At  the  hour  of  going  to  press,  Standard  Oil  had 
practically  all  the  money  in  the  world.  And  my 
partner  has  learned  that  a  holding  of  five  clubs 
doesn't  demand  a  bid  of  the  same  amount. 

Sunday,  August  12. 

The  boat  seems  to  be  well  supplied  with  the 
necessities  of  life,  such  as  cocktails  and  cards  and 
chips,  but  it  is  next  to  impossible  to  obtain  luxuries 
like  matches,  ice-water  and  soap. 

Yale  and  Harvard  both  knew  enough  to  brins: 
their  own  soap,  but  my  previous  ocean  experiences 
were  mostly  with  the  Old  Fall  River  Line,  on  which 
there  wasn't  time  to  wash.  Neither  Yale  nor  Har- 
vard ever  takes  a  hint.  And  "Apportez-moi  du 
Savon,  s'il  vous  plait,"  to  the  cabin  steward  is  just 
as  ineffectual. 

All  good  people  attended  service  this  morning, 
and  some  bad  ones  played  poker  this  afternoon. 

In  a  burst  of  generosity  I  invited  a  second-class 


22       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

French  young  lady  of  five  summers  to  have  some 
candy.  She  accepted,  and  her  acceptance  led  to 
the  discovery  that  the  ship's  barber  is  also  its  candy 
salesman. 

This  barber  understands  not  a  syllable  of  Eng- 
lish, which  fact  has  added  much  to  young  Amer- 
ica's enjoyment.  The  boys,  in  the  midst  of  a  hair 
cut,  say  to  him  politely :  "You  realize  that  you're 
a  damn  rotten  barber  ?"  And  he  answers  smilingly : 
"Oui,  oui,  monsieur."  Yesterday,  I  am  told,  a 
young  shavee  remarked:  "You  make  me  sick." 
The  barber  replied  as  usual,  and  the  customer  was 
sick  all  last  night. 

To-morrow  afternoon  there  is  to  be  a  "concert" 
and  I'm  to  speak  a  piece,  O  Diary ! 
Monday,  August  13. 

The  concert  was  "au  profit  du  Secours  National 
de  France.  (Euvre  fondee  pour  repartir  les  Se- 
cours aux  Victimes  de  la  Guerre." 

Ten  minutes  before  starting  time  they  informed 
me  that  I  was  to  talk  on  "The  American  National 
Game,"  and  I  don't  even  know  how  the  White  Sox 
came  out  a  week  ago  to-morrow. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       23 

The  afternoon's  entertainment  opened  with  a  few 
well-chosen  remarks  by  our  congressman.  The  gen- 
eral, designated  on  the  program  as  "chairman," 
though  his  real  job  was  toastmaster,  talked  a  while 
about  this,  that  and  the  other  thing,  and  then  in- 
troduced the  cornet  player,  using  his  real  name. 
This  gentleman  and  I  blew  at  the  same  time,  so  I 
have  no  idea  what  he  played.  I  got  back  in  time  for 
some  pretty  good  harmonizing  by  three  young 
Americans  and  a  boy  from  Cincinnati.  Then  there 
was  a  Humorous  Recitation  (the  program  said  so) 
by  a  gent  with  a  funny  name,  and  some  really  de- 
lightful French  folk  songs  by  the  lady  novelist. 
After  which  came  a  Humorous  Speech  (the  pro- 
gram forgot  to  say  so)  by  myself,  necessarily  brief, 
as  I  gave  it  in  French.  The  French  songbird  fol- 
lowed with  one  of  those  things  that  jump  back  and 
forth  between  Pike's  Peak  and  the  Grand  Canon, 
and  a  brave  boy  played  a  ukelele,  and  the  quartette 
repeated.  In  conclusion,  we  all  rose  and  attempted 
La  Marseillaise. 

Some  of  the  programs  had  been  illustrated  by  the 
lady  novelist's  artist  husband,  and  these  were  auc- 


24       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

tioned  off  after  the  show.  I  made  my  financial  con- 
tribution indirectly,  through  better  card  players 
than  myself.  My  bridge  partner,  I  noticed,  had 
recovered  from  his  attack  of  the  Bids. 

Tuesday,  August  14-. 

The  concert,  by  the  way,  was  given  in  the  salon 
de  conversation,  which,  I  think,  should  be  reserved 
for  the  Gentleman  from  Louisiana.  He  has  now 
told  me  two  hundred  times  that  he  won  his  election 
to  the  State  Senate  by  giving  one  dollar  and  a  half 
to  "a  nigger." 

One  of  our  young  field-service  men  spoiled  the 
forenoon  poker  game  with  a  lecture  on  how  to  catch 
sharks.  His  remarkable  idea  is  to  put  beefsteak  on 
a  stout  copper  wire  and  troll  with  it.  He  has  evi- 
dently been  very  intimate  with  this  family  of  fish, 
and  he  says  they  are  simply  crazy  about  beefsteak. 
Personally,  I  have  no  desire  to  catch  sharks.  There 
are  plenty  aboard.  But  I  do  wish  he  had  not  got 
to  the  most  interesting  part  of  his  theory  at  the 
moment  the  dealer  slipped  me  four  sixes  before  the 
draw.     Everybody  was  too  busy  listening  to  stay. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       25 

We  have  discovered  that  the  man  behind  the  gun 
in  the  fumoir  bears  a  striking  resemblance  to  Von 
Hindenburg,  but  no  one  has  been  found  who  will  tell 
him  so. 

There  was  a  track  meet  this  afternoon,  and  the 
author  of  this  diary  was  appointed  referee.  But 
the  first  event,  a  wheelbarrow  race,  was  so  exciting 
that  he  feared  for  his  weak  heart  and  resigned  in 
favor  of  our  general.  There  didn't  seem  to  be  much 
else  to  the  meet  but  ju-jutsu,  the  sport  in  which 
skill  is  supposed  to  triumph  over  brawn.  I  noticed 
that  a  two-hundred-and-thirty-pound  man  was  the 
winner. 

We  are  in  that  old  zone,  and  the  second  table's 
dinner  hour  has  been  advanced  to  half  past  six  so 
that  there  need  be  no  lights  in  the  dining-room. 
Also,  we  are  ordered  not  to  smoke,  not  even  to  light 
a  match,  on  deck  after  dark.  The  fumoir  will  be 
running  for  the  last  time,  but  the  port-holes  in  it 
will  all  be  scaled,  meaning  that  after  thirty-five 
smokers  have  done  their  best  for  a  few  hours  the 
atmosphere  will  be  intolerable.  We  can  stay  on 
deck  smokeless,  or  we  can  try  to  exist  in  the  airless 


26       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

fumoir,  or  we  can  go  to  bed  in  the  dark  and  wish 
we  were  sleepy.    And  the  worst  is  yet  to  come. 
Wednesday,  August  15. 

The  rules  for  to  night  fcr*d  to-morrow  night  pro- 
vide for  the  closing  of  our  old  friend,  the  fumoir, 
at  seven  o'clock,  and  that  witching  hour  is  on  you 
long  before  you  expect  it,  for  they  jump  the  clock 
fifteen  minutes  ahead  every  time  it's  noon  or  mid- 
night. The  ship  will  not  be  lit  up.  The  passengers 
may,  if  they  do  their  shopping  early. 

There  was  another  life-boat  "drill"  this  after- 
noon. Every  one  was  required  to  stand  in  front  of 
his  canoe  and  await  the  arrival  of  Svengali.  When 
that  gent  appeared,  he  called  the  roll.  As  soon  as 
you  said  "Here"  or  "Present,"  your  part  of  the 
"drill"  was  over.  When  the  time  comes  I  must  do 
my  drifting  under  an  alias,  as  Svengali  insists  on 
designating  me  as  Monsieur  Gardnierre.  But  No. 
12  is  at  least  honored  with  two  second-class  ladies. 
Many  a  poor  devil  on  the  ship  is  assigned  to  a  life- 
boat that  is  strictly  stag. 

The  Gentleman  from  Louisiana  to-day  sprang 
this  one: 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       27 

"You  know  when  I  part  my  hair  in  the  middle  I 
look  just  like  a  girl.  Well,  sir,  during  the  Mardi 
Gras,  two  years  ago,  I  put  on  a  page's  costume  and 
parted  my  hair  in  the  middle.  And  you  know  girls 
under  a  certain  age  must  go  home  at  nine  o'clock 
in  the  evening.  Well,  sir,  a  policeman  accosted  me 
and  told  me  I  had  to  go  home.  I  gave  him  the  bawl- 
ing out  of  his  lif e.  And  maybe  you  think  he  wasn't 
surprised !" 

Maybe  I  do  think  so. 

The  Gentleman  strayed  to  the  subject  of  Patti 
and  wound  up  with  a  vocal  imitation  of  that  lady. 
He  stopped  suddenly  when  Ins  voice  parted  in  the 
middle. 

We  have  seen  no  periscopes,  but  when  I  opened 
my  suit-case  tins  morning  I  met  face  to  face  one 
of  those  birds  that  are  house  pets  with  inmates  of 
seven-room  flats  at  twenty-five  dollars  per  month. 
I  missed  fire  with  a  clothes  brush,  and  before  I  could 
aim  again  he  had  submerged  under  a  vest.  Looks 
as  if  the  little  fellow  were  destined  to  go  with  me  to 
Paris,  but  when  I  get  him  there  I'll  get  him  good. 


28       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

Thursday,  August  16. 

Great  excitement  last  night  when  a  small  un- 
lighted  boat  was  sighted  half  a  mile  or  so  off  our 
port.  Our  gunners,  who  are  said  to  receive  a  bonus 
for  every  effective  shot,  had  the  range  all  figured 
out  when  the  pesky  thing  gave  us  a  signal  of  friend- 
ship.   It  may  have  been  part  of  the  entertainment. 

To-day  we  persuaded  the  Gentleman  from  Lou- 
isiana to  part  his  hair  in  the  middle.  The  New 
Orleans  policeman  is  not  guilty. 

It  develops  that  while  first-  and  second-class  pas- 
sengers were  unable  to  read  or  smoke  after  dark, 
the  third-class  fumoir  is  running  wide  open  and  the 
Greeks  have  their  cigarettes,  libations  and  card 
games,  while  the  idle  rich  bore  one  another  to  death 
with  conversation. 

Un  Americain  aboard  is  now  boasting  of  the 
world's  championship  as  a  load  carrier.  It  was  too 
much  trouble  for  him  to  pay  Auguste  for  each 
beverage  as  it  was  served,  so  he  ran  a  two  days' 
charge  account.     His  bill  was  one  hundred  and 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       29 

seventy-eight  francs,  or  thirty-five  dollars  and  sixty 
cents. 

"Who  got  all  the  drinks?"  he  asked  Auguste. 

"You,  monsieur,"  that  gent  replied. 

"And  what  do  you  charge  for  a  highball?" 

"One  franc,  monsieur,"  said  Auguste. 

Which  means,  if  Auguste  is  to  be  believed,  that 
one  hundred  and  seventy-eight  highballs  went  down 
one  throat  in  two  days.  And  the  owner  of  the 
throat  is  still  alive  and  well.  Also,  he  says  he  will 
hereafter  pay  as  you  enter. 

As  an  appetizer  for  dinner  to-night  the  captain 
told  everybody  to  remain  on  deck,  fully  dressed  and 
armed  with  a  life-belt,  this  evening,  until  he  gave 
permission  to  retire. 

We're  all  on  deck,  and  in  another  minute  it  will 
be  too  dark  to  write. 

To-morrow  night,  Boche  willing,  we  will  be  out 
of  the  jurisdiction  of  this  Imp  of  Darkness. 


II 


I  GET  TO  PARIS  AND  ENCOUNTER  SOME 
STRANGE  SIGHTS 

Friday,  August  17.     A  French  Port. 

In  obedience  to  the  captain's  orders  we  remained 
on  deck  last  night,  fully  dressed,  till  our  ship  was 
past  the  danger  zone  and  in  harbor.  There  was  a 
rule  against  smoking  or  lighting  matches,  but  none 
against  conversation. 

The  Gentleman  from  Louisiana  and  a  young 
American  Field  Service  candidate  had  the  floor. 
The  former's  best  was  a  report  of  what  he  saw  once 
while  riding  along  beside  the  Columbia  River.  An 
enormous  salmon  jumped  out  of  the  water  and  raced 
six  miles  with  the  train  before  being  worn  out. 
Whether  the  piscatorial  athlete  flew  or  rode  a  motor- 
cycle, we  were  unable  to  learn. 

The  Gentleman  from  Louisiana  yielded  to  his 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       SI 

g  '•  and  stronger  countryman.  Some  one  had 
spoken  of  the  lack  of  convoy.  "Don't  you  think  we 
haven't  a  convoy,"  the  kid  remarked. 

I  scanned  the  sea  in  all  directions  and  saw  noth- 
ing but  the  dark  waters.  "Where  is  it?"  I  in- 
quired. 

"There's  one  on  each  side  of  us,"  said  Young 
America.  "They're  about  twenty  miles  from  the 
ship." 

"I  should  think,"  said  somebody,  "that  a  very 
slender  submarine  might  slip  in  between  our  side 
kicks  and  us  and  do  its  regular  job." 

"No  chance,"  the  youth  replied.  "The  convoy 
boats  are  used  as  decoys.  The  sub  would  see  them 
first  and  spend  all  its  ammunition." 

A  little  later  he  confided  in  me  that  the  new 
American  war-ships  were  two  hundred  and  forty-five 
thousand  horsepower.  I  had  no  idea  there  were 
that  many  horses  left  to  measure  by. 

We  spotted  a  shooting  star.  "That  was  a  big 
one,"  I  said. 

"Big!  Do  you  know  the  actual  size  of  those 
things?     I  got  it  straight  from  a  professor  of  as- 


32       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

tronomy.  Listen.  They're  as  small  as  a  grain  of 
sand." 

"Why  do  they  look  so  big?" 

"Because  they're  so  far  away  and  they  travel  so 
fast." 

Round  ten  o'clock,  beckoning  lights  ashore  told 
us  we  were  close  to  safety.  But  the  French  gunners 
remained  at  their  posts  two  hours  longer.  The  cap- 
tain's shouted  order,  relieving  them  from  duty,  was 
music  to  our  ears. 

After  midnight,  however,  we  turned  a  complete 
circle,  and  at  once  the  deck  was  alive  with  rumors. 
We  had  been  hit,  we  were  going  to  be  hit,  we  were 
afraid  we  would  be  hit,  and  so  on.  The  fact  was 
that  our  pilot  from  ashore  was  behind  time  and  we 
circled  round  rather  than  stand  still  and  be  an  easy 
target  while  awaiting  him.  We  were  in  harbor  and 
anchored  at  three.  Many  of  us  stayed  up  to  see  the 
sun  rise  over  France.    It  was  worth  the  sleep  it  cost. 

They  told  us  we  would  not  dock  until  six  to-night. 
Before  retiring  to  my  cabin  for  a  nap,  I  heard  we 
had  run  over  a  submarine  and  also  that  we  had 
not.    The  latter  story  lacked  heart  interest,  but  had 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       33 

the  merit,  probably,  of  truth.  Submarines  have  lit- 
tle regard  for  traffic  laws,  but  are  careful  not  to 
stall  their  engines  in  the  middle  of  a  boulevard. 

I  was  peacefully  asleep  when  the  French  officers 
came  aboard  to  give  us  and  our  passports  the 
Double  O.  They  had  to  send  to  my  cabin  for  me. 
I  was  ordered  to  appear  at  once  in  the  salon  de  con- 
versation. A  barber  hater  addressed  me  throusrh  his 
beard  and  his  interpreter :  "What  is  Monsieur  Lau- 
danum's business  in  France?" 

I  told  him  I  was  a  correspondent. 

"For  who?" 

"Mark  Sullivan." 

"Have  you  credentials  from  him?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Your  passport  says  }rou  are  going  to  Belgium. 
Do  you  know  there  are  no  trains  to  Belgium?" 

"I  know  nothing  about  it." 

"Well,  there  are  no  trains.  How  will  you  go 
there?" 

"I'U  try  to  get  a  taxi,"  I  said. 

"Are  you  going  from  here  to  Paris  ?" 

"Yes." 


34       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

"And  where  are  you  going  from  Paris  ?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Please  explain  that  answer." 

"I  will  go  wherever  the  authorities  permit  me  to 
go." 

"That  is  not  a  satisfactory  answer." 

"I'm  sorry." 

"What  is  your  real  business  in  France?" 

"To  write." 

"I'm  afraid  we'll  have  to  keep  your  passport. 
You  will  appear  to-morrow  morning  at  nine  o'clock 
at  this  address." 

And  they  handed  me  a  scary-looking  card. 

On  the  deck  I  met  our  congressman  and  told  him 
my  troubles. 

"I  know  these  fellows  very  well,"  he  said.  "If 
you  like,  I  can  fix  it  for  you." 

"No,"  I  replied  proudly.  "I'd  rather  do  my  own 
fixing." 

At  the  dock  I  got  into  a  taxi  and  asked  to  be 

taken  to  the  Hotel.     Not  to  my  dying  day 

will  I  forget  that  first  ride  in  a  French  taxi.  Part 
of  the  time  we  were  on  the  right  side  of  the  street, 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       35 

part  of  the  time  on  the  left,  and  never  once  were 
we  traveling  under  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  an 
hour.  We  turned  twenty  corners  and  always  on  one 
ear.  We  grazed  dozens  of  frightened  pedestrians, 
many  of  them  men  crippled  in  the  war,  or  by  taxis, 
and  women  too  old  to  dodge  quickly.  We  aimed  at  a 
score  of  rickety  horse-drawn  vehicles,  but  our  con- 
trol was  bad  and  we  bumped  only  one.  In  front  of 
the  hostelry  we  stopped  with  a  jerk. 

"Comme  beaucoup?"    I  asked  the  assassin. 

"Un  franc  cinquante,"  he  said. 

Only  thirty  cents,  and  I  thought  I  knew  why. 
When  they  get  through  a  trip  without  killing  any 
one,  they  feel  they  have  not  done  themselves  justice 
nor  given  3rou  a  square  deal. 

I  found  m3rself  a  scat  at  a  sidewalk  table  and 
ordered  sustenance.  The  vial  they  brought  it  in 
was  labeled  "Biere  Ritten,"  but  I  suspect  the  ad- 
jective was  misspelled. 

Till  darkness  fell  I  watched  the  passing  show — 
street-cars  with  lady  motormen  and  conductors; 
hundreds  of  old  carts  driven  by  old  women,  each 
cart  acting  as  a  traveling  roof  for  an  old  dog; 


36       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

wounded  soldiers  walking  or  hobbling  along,  some 
of  them  accompanied  by  sad-faced  girls ;  an  appall- 
ing number  of  women  in  black;  a  lesser  number  of 
gayly  garbed  and  extremely  cordial  ones,  and  whole 
flocks  of  mad  taxis,  seeking  whom  they  might  de- 
vour. 

By  using  great  caution  at  the  street  crossings,  I 
succeeded  in  reaching  the  telegraph  office  where  I 
wrote  a  message  informing  Paris  friends  of  my 
arrival.  I  presented  it  to  the  lady  in  the  cage,  who 
handed  it  back  with  the  advice  that  it  must  be  re- 
written in  French.  I  turned  away  discouraged  and 
was  starting  out  again  into  the  gloom  when  I  beheld 
at  a  desk  the  songbird  of  the  ship.  Would  she  be 
kind  enough  to  do  my  translating?    She  would. 

The  clerk  approved  the  new  document,  and  asked 
for  my  passport.  I  told  her  it  had  been  taken  away. 
She  was  deeply  grieved,  then,  but  without  it  mon- 
sieur could  send  no  message.    Bonne  nuit ! 

Back  at  the  hotel  I  encountered  the  Yankee  vice- 
consul,  a  gentleman  from  Bedford,  Indiana.  I  told 
him  my  sad  plight,  and  he  said  if  matters  got  too 
serious  his  office  would  undertake  to  help. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       37i 

With  his  assurances  to  comfort  me,  I  have  retired 
to  my  room  to  write,  to  my  room  as  big  as  Texas 
and  furnished  with  all  the  modern  inconveniences. 

Saturday,  August  18.     Paris. 

It  is  Saturday  night  and  they  have  hot  water,  but 
before  I  take  advantage  of  it  I  must  recount  the 
thrilling  experiences  of  the  day. 

After  a  sidewalk  breakfast  of  "oofs"  and  so- 
called  cafe  in  Bordeaux,  I  went  to  keep  my  engage- 
ment at  court.  It  was  apparent  that  I  was  not  the 
only  suspect.  The  walk  outside  and  the  room  within 
were  crowded  with  shipmates,  most  of  them  from  the 
second  cabin,  all  looking  scared  to  death. 

I  stood  in  line  till  I  realized  that  T  must  make  it 
snappy  if  I  wanted  to  catch  the  eleven-five  for 
Paris ;  then  I  butted  my  way  into  the  august  pres- 
ence of  Him  of  the  Beard. 

He  recognized  me  at  once  and  told  me  with  his 
hands  to  go  up-stairs.  In  a  room  above  I  found 
the  English-speaking  cross-examiner,  with  the  ac- 
cent on  the  cross. 

He  waved  me  to  a  chair  and  began  his  offensive. 


38       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

"Monsieur  Laudanum,"  he  said,  "when  I  asked 
you  yesterday  how  you  expected  to  get  to  Belgium, 
you  said  something  about  a  taxi.  That  answer  was 
not  satisfactory.  You  have  not  explained  anything 
to  us.  I  do  not  believe  we  can  allow  you  to  leave 
Bordeaux." 

"All  right,  sir."     I  arose. 

"Sit  down !"  he  barked.  "Now  tell  me  if  you 
have  any  explanations  to  make." 

"Nothing  beyond  what  I  said  yesterday.  I  have 
come  here  to  write.  I  want  to  go  to  Paris,  and  when 
I  arrive  there  I  will  find  out  where  else  I  will  be 
permitted  to  go." 

"It  seems  very  strange  to  me  that  you  have  no 
papers." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Have  you  any?" 

I  searched  my  pockets  and  produced  a  used-up 
check  book  on  a  Chicago  bank.  The  ogre  read 
every  little  stub  and  I  felt  flattered  by  his  absorbed 
interest.  When  he  had  spent  some  five  minutes  on 
the  last  one,  which  recorded  a  certain  painful  trans- 
action between  me  and  a  man-eating  garage,  he 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       3Q 

returned  my  book  and  said:  "You  don't  satisfy 
me  at  all.    You  will  have  to  stay  here." 

"Suppose,"  said  I,  "that  the  American  consul 
vouches  for  me." 

"That  will  make  no  difference.  You  do  not  seem 
to  realize  that  we  are  at  war." 

"Not  with  America." 

"I  don't  know  your  nationality." 

"I  thought,"  said  I,  "that  my  passport  hinted  at 

it." 

"You  will  have  to  stay  in  Bordeaux,"  was  his 
pertinent  reply. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  I  said,  and  arose  again. 

"Sit  down,"  said  he,  "and  wait  a  minute." 

He  was  out  of  the  room  five  years. 

"If  he  ever  (Joes  come  back,"  I  thought,  "it  will 
be  in  the  company  of  five  or  six  large  gendarmes." 

But  when  he  came  back  he  came  alone. 

"Here,"  he  said  abruptly,  "is  your  passport. 
You  will  be  permitted  to  go  to  Paris.  We  will  keep 
track  of  you  there."  And  he  bowed  me  out  of  the 
joint. 

The  crowd  down-stairs  seemed  as  great  as  ever, 


40       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

and  as  scared.    I  picked  my  way  through  it  with  my 
head  held  high,  a  free  man. 

I  decided  on  a  fiacre  for  my  trip  from  hotel  to 
station.  It  would  be  safer,  I  thought.  But  I 
learned,  on  our  interminable  way,  that  defensive 
fighting  in  the  streets  of  Bordeaux  is  far  more 
terrifying,  far  more  dangerous  than  the  aggressive 
taxi  kind.  We  were  run  into  twice  and  just  missed 
more  times  than  I  could  count,  and  besides  my  con- 
veyance was  always  on  the  verge  of  a  nervous  break- 
down. 'Spite  all  the  talk  of  periscopes  and  subs, 
the  journey  across  the  ocean  was  parlor  croquet 
compared  to  my  fiacre  ride  in  Bordeaux. 

While  awaiting  my  turn  at  the  ticket  window  I 
observed  at  the  gate  a  French  soldier  wearing  a 
large  businesslike  bayonet.  "Probably  to  punch 
tickets  with,"  I  thought,  but  was  mistaken.  An- 
other gentleman  attended  to  that  duty,  and  the 
soldier  did  not  give  me  so  much  as  the  honor  of  a 
glance. 

Outside  on  the  platform  were  a  few  of  the  Red 
Cross  and  Y.  M.  C.  A.  men  of  our  ship,  and  I 
learned  from  them  that  one  of  their  number  had 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       41 

suffered  a  sadder  fate  than  I.  He  had  tried  to  get 
by  on  a  Holland  passport,  viseed  at  the  French  con- 
sulate in  New  York,  and  been  quietly  but  firmly  per- 
suaded «to  take  the  next  boat  back  home. 

I  shared  a  compartment  on  the  train  with  a  native 
of  the  Bronx,  and  a  French  lady  who  just  couldn't 
make  her  eyes  behave,  and  two  bored-looking  French 
gentlemen  of  past  middle  age,  not  to  mention  in 
detail  much  more  baggage  than  there  was  room  for. 
The  lady  and  the  two  gentlemen  wore  gloves,  which 
made  the  Bronxite  and  me  feel  very  bourgeois. 

Our  train  crew,  with  the  possible  exception  of 
the  engineer  and  fireman  whom  I  didn't  see,  was 
female,  and,  thinking  I  might  some  time  require 
the  services  of  the  porter,  I  looked  in  my  dictionary 
for  the  feminine  of  George. 

To  try  my  knowledge  of  francaise,  I  had  pur- 
chased at  the  station  a  copy  of  Le  Cri  de  Paris.  I 
found  that  I  could  read  it  very  easily  by  consult- 
ing the  dictionary  every  time  I  came  to  a  word. 

But  the  scenery  and  the  people  were  more  inter- 
esting than  Le  Cri,  the  former  especially.  Perfect 
automobile  roads,  lined  with  trees ;  fields,  and  truck 


42       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

gardens  in  which  aged  men  and  women,  young  girls 
and  little  boys  were  at  work ;  green  hills  and  valleys ; 
winding  rivers  and  brooks,  and  an  occasional  cha- 
teau or  a  town  of  fascinating  architecture — these 
helped  to  make  us  forget  the  heat  and  dust  of  the 
trip  and  the  ear-splitting  shrieks  of  our  engines. 
No  wonder  the  boche  coveted  his  neighbor's  house. 

We  stopped  for  some  time  at  one  particularly 
beautiful  town  and  went  out  for  air.  I  wondered 
audibly  concerning  the  name  of  the  place.  An 
American  companion  looked  at  the  signs  round  the 
station. 

"It's  Sortie,"  he  said. 

But  it  wasn't.  It  was  Angouleme,  and  I  wouldn't 
mind  moving  thither.  My  American  friend  was 
probably  from  Exit,  Michigan. 

The  discovery  was  made  and  reported  that  one 
might  go  into  the  dining-car  and  smoke  as  much  as 
one  liked  without  asking  permission  from  the 
maiden  with  the  dreamy  eyes.  This  car  was  filled 
with  French  soldiers  and  officers  going  back  to  the 
front  after  their  holiday.  There  seemed  to  be  as 
many  different  uniforms  as  there  were  men,  and  the 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE        43 

scenery  indoors  was  almost  as  brilliant  as  that  out- 
side. 

It  was  about  eight-thirty  in  the  evening  when  we 
reached  Paris.  The  sophisticated  soldiers  engaged 
their  "redcaps"  before  they  left  the  train,  calling 
to  them  through  the  open  windows.  The  demand 
was  much  greater  than  the  supply,  and  I  was  among 
the  unfortunates  who  had  to  carry  their  own  bag- 
gage. I  staggered  to  a  street  where  a  whole  flotilla 
of  taxis  was  anchored,  but  when  I  asked  for  one  the 
person  in  charge  said  "No,  no,  no,  no,  no,"  meaning 
"No,"  and  pointed  around  the  corner.  I  followed 
his  directions  and  landed  on  a  boulevard  along 
which  there  was  a  steady  procession  of  machines, 
but  it  was  fully  twenty  minutes  before  one  came 
that  was  going  slow  enough  to  stop. 

Our  city  is  not  all  lit  up  like  a  church  these 
nights,  and  it  was  impossible  to  see  much  of  what 
we  passed  on  the  way  to  the  hotel. 

At  the  desk  an  English  clerk,  dressed  for  a  noon 
wedding,  gave  me  a  blank  to  fill  out.  All  the  blank 
wanted  to  know  was  my  past  family  history.  It  is 
to  be  sent,  said  the  clerk,  to  the  prefect  of  police. 
I  had  no  idea  he  was  interested  in  me. 


U       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

Sunday,  August  19.     Paris. 

When  I  get  back  to  Chicago  I  shall  insist  that 
my  favorite  restaurant  place  tables  out  on  the  walk. 
It  is  more  hygienic  and  much  more  interesting. 

But  Chicago,  I'm  afraid,  can't  provide  half  as 
much  sidewalk  entertainment  as  Paris.  As  I  re- 
member the  metropolis  of  Illinois,  there  is  a  sad 
lack  there  of  demonstrative  affection  on  the  streets. 
In  fact,  I  fear  that  a  lady  and  gentleman  who  kissed 
each  other  repeatedly  at  the  corner  of  Madison  and 
Dearborn  would  be  given  a  free  ride  to  Central 
Station  and  a  few  days  in  which  to  cool  off.  Such 
an  osculatory  duel  on  Paris's  Grand  Boulevard — 
also  known  by  a  dozen  other  names — goes  prac- 
tically unnoticed  except  by  us  Illinois  hicks. 

An  American  officer  and  I — at  the  former's  ex- 
pense— lunched  sur  curb  to-day.  The  food  was 
nothing  to  boast  about,  but  we  got  an  eyeful  of 
scenery.  Soldiers — French,  British  and  American 
— strolled  by  constantly,  accompanied  by  more  or 
less  beautiful  brunettes,  and  only  a  few  were 
thoughtless  enough  not  to  stop  and  kiss  a  few  times 


Only  a  few  were  thoughtless  enough  not  to  stop  and  kiss  a  few 
times  in   full  view  of  onr  table 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       45 

in  full  view  of  our  table.  We  also  observed  the  in- 
mates of  passing  taxis.  No  matter  how  wide  the 
back  seat,  the  lady  occupant  invariably  sat  on  her 
escort's  lap.  A  five-passenger  car  in  America  is  a 
ten-passenger  car  in  Paris,  provided  the  chauffeur 
has  a  girl  of  his  own. 

When  the  American  officer  was  tired  of  buying, 
I  left  him  and  sought  out  the  Chicago  Tribune 
office,  conveniently  located  above  Maxim's.  The 
editor  was  there,  but  he  was  also  broke,  so  I  went 
back  to  the  Ritz  and  got  ready  for  bed. 

The  express  office  will  be  open  to-morrow  and  I 
will  be  a  rich  man. 

Lundi,  W  Aout.  Paris. 

Went  down  to  the  express  office  and  cashed  a 
large  part  of  my  order.  Friends  were  with  me,  and 
they  immediately  relieved  me  of  most  of  the  burden. 
I  was  hungry  for  lunch,  having  had  no  breakfast. 
Meat  was  what  I  wanted,  and  meat  was  what  I 
couldn't  get.  Which  led  me  to  inquire  into  the 
Rules  de  la  vie  of  Paris. 


46       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

1.  Monday  and  Tuesday  are  meatless  days. 

2.  All  except  Saturday  and  Sunday  are  heat- 
less  days.  Hot  baths  are  impossible  on  Mondays, 
Tuesdays,  Wednesdays,  Thursdays  and  Fridays. 

3.  Strong  liquor  is  procurable  between  noon  and 
two  p.  m.  and  seven-thirty  and  nine-thirty  at  night. 
At  other  times  ye  toper  must  be  content  with  light 
wines. 

4.  All  public  places  except  the  theaters  must 
close  and  douse  lights  at  nine-thirty  in  the  evening. 

5.  There  is  no  speed  limit  for  taxis  or  privately 
owned  cars.  A  pedestrian  run  over  and  killed  is 
liable  to  imprisonment.  The  driver  is  not  only  inno- 
cent, but  free  to  hurl  as  many  French  curses  as  he 
likes  at  his  victims.  If  the  pedestrian  is  not  killed, 
he  must  explain  why  not  to  the  judge. 

6.  It  is  not  only  permissible  but  compulsory  to 
speak  to  any  girl  who  speaks  to  you,  and  a  girl  who 
won't  speak  to  you  should  be  reported  to  the  police. 

7.  No  watch  or  clock  is  wrong.  Whatever 
time  you  have  is  right  and  you  may  act  accordingly. 

8.  Matches  never  ignite.  A  smoker  must  pur- 
chase a  cigar  or  cigarette  lighter  and  keep  it  filled 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE        47 

with  essence,  the  franchise  term  for  gas.     Sometimes 
the  lighters  work. 

9.  American  cigarettes  are  not  procurable.  Bum 
ones  may  be  bought  at  any  tabac  store  or  cafe  for 
only  five  times  what  they  are  worth. 

10.  Water  must  never  be  used  as  a  thirst 
quencher,  and  seldom  for  any  other  purpose.  It's 
worse  than  bourgeois ;  it's  unheard-of. 

The  lack  of  water,  hot  or  cold,  drove  me  to  a 
barber  shop  this  morning.  The  barber  first  made 
me  put  on  a  shroud,  and  I  was  afraid  he  was  either 
going  to  cut  me  to  pieces  or  talk  me  to  death.  But 
his  operation  was  absolutely  painless  and  his  inces- 
sant conversation  harmless,  because  I  couldn't 
understand  a  word  of  it. 

From  the  barber  shop  I  went  to  the  information 
department  of  American  Army  Headquarters. 
That's  where  you  get  permits  to  visit  our  camps. 
But  of  course,  if  you've  run  over  here  from  Amer- 
ica, you  have  lots  of  spare  time  on  your  hands, 
so  they're  doing  you  a  favor  if  they  hold  you  up 
a  few  days.  What  is  a  week  or  so  when  a  man's 
here  for  a  whole  month? 


48       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

They  have  queer  ideas  at  the  Maison  de  la  Presse, 
which  is  the  French  equivalent  for  our  publicity 
bureau.  They  receive  you  cordially  there  and  treat 
you  just  as  if  you  were  not  dregs. 

I  jumped  thither  after  a  futile  visit  to  our  own 
headquarters.  I  said  I  would  like  to  go  to  the 
French  front. 

"Certainly,"  replied  the  man  in  charge.  "When- 
ever is  convenient  for  you,  we'll  see  that  you  get  a 
trip." 

So  I  told  him  when  it  would  be  convenient  and 
he's  going  to  see  me  through.  I  hear  that  the  Brit- 
ish are  similarly  peculiar.  They  are  polite  even  to 
newspaper  men  and  magazine  writers.  They  might 
even  speak  to  a  cartoonist. 

Returning  to  our  side  of  the  Seine,  I  bumped  in- 
to some  Australians,  here  on  leave.  One  had  been 
in  Germany  before  the  war  and  could  speak  and 
understand  the  "schoenste  language." 

"They  use  me  as  an  interpreter,"  he  said.  "When 
they  bring  in  a  bloody  boche  prisoner,  I  talk  to 
him.  First  we  give  him  a  real  meal,  maybe  bacon 
and  eggs  and  coffee,  something  he  hasn't  seen  for 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       49 

months.  Then  I  ask  him  where  he  came  from  and 
how  he  got  here.  Most  of  them  are  glad  to  tell 
me  the  truth.  Those  that  do,  I  mark  them  down 
as  'Very  intelligent.'  Those  that  volunteer  infor- 
mation I  record  as  'Extremely  intelligent.'  Those 
that  say  'Nicht  verstehe'  go  down  in  the  record  as 
'Not  intelligent.'  But  the  majority  are  so  bloody 
well  glad  to  be  out  of  the  war  that  they  talk  freely. 

"I  asked  one  Heinie  if  he  was  going  to  try  to 
escape.  'Not  me,'  he  said,  'I'm  tickled  to  be  here.' 
They're  all  fed  up  on  the  war.  You'd  be  too  with 
three  years  of  it." 

This  young  man  admitted  that  he  was  one  of  the 
best  football  players  in  Australia.  "Maybe  I've 
forgotten  how  now,"  he  said.  "I've  been  over  here 
three  years.  Just  think  of  it — I  traveled  twelve 
thousand  miles,  or  maybe  it's  kilos,  to  mix  up  in 
this." 

Baseball,  he  told  me,  had  taken  a  strong  hold  on 
Australia. 

"I  don't  hit  well,"  he  said,  "but  I  can  catch  what 
you  call  flies !  I  can  catch  the  widest  flies  that  are 
knocked." 


50       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

Which  gift  would  probably  be  useless  in  America, 
where  most  of  the  flies  knocked  are  bloody  narrow. 

Before  I  left  him  I  learned  also  that  Les  Darcy 
was  all  right  at  heart,  but  that  the  professional 
"sports"  spoiled  him,  and  that  he  could  have 
"knocked  Jack  Johnson,  Stanley  Ketchel,  Billy 
Papke  or  Jess  Willard  clean  out  of  the  ring." 

He  is  going  back  to  the  trenches  to-night,  and  I 
hope  there  are  plenty  of  extremely  intelligent 
Heinies  there  to  keep  him  busy  interpreting  till  his 
next  leave.  Interpreting,  I  should  think,  would  be 
much  pleasanter  than  going  over  the  top. 

Tuesday,  August  21. 

This  time  it  was  an  American  of  the  French  Am- 
bulance Service. 

"Say,  listen,"  he  said.  "I  can  give  you  some 
mighty  good  stories.  Real  stuff,  do  you  get  me? 
Listen :  One  night  there  was  a  boche  wounded  out 
there  and  I  brought  him  in.  He  had  one  leg  all 
shot  to  pieces  and  we  had  to  operate.  I  was  going 
to  ffivc  him  the  ether  when  he  turned  over  and 
looked  me  in  the  face.    'Why,  Dan,'  he  said,  'aren't 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       51 

you  going- to  speak  to  me?'  It  was  a  chap  I'd  gone 
to  school"  with  in  America.  I  could  give  you  lots 
of  stuff  like  that;  do  you  get  me?  I  used  to  be  in 
New  York,  and  Rube  Goldberg  used  to  call  me  up 
out  of  bed  at  six  in  the  morning.  'Dan,'  he'd  say 
to  me,  'I'm  up  against  it  for  an  idea.  Will  you  give 
me  an  idea?'  Do  you  get  me?  And  there's  a 
dramatic  critic  in  New  York — I  won't  tell  you  his 
name — but  he  used  to  tag  around  me  after  a  first 
night  and  ask  me  what  I  thought  of  the  show.  Do 
you  get  me?     I  can  give  you  a  lot  of  good  stuff." 

I  told  him  I  was  afraid  that  if  he  gave  it  to  me 
all  at  once  I  wouldn't  remember  any  of  it.  So  he 
is  coming  to  my  hotel  every  day  during  his  leave, 
to  give  me  a  little  at  a  time — if  he  can  find  me. 

Last  night  a  good-hearted  American  officer  took 
me  to  dinner  at  La  Tour  d'Argent,  which  is  said 
to  be  the  oldest  restaurant  in  Paris  and  which,  they 
say,  is  the  place  the  Kaiser  was  going  to  have  his 
banquet  on  a  certain  night  three  years  ago  if  Gott 
hadn't  gone  back  on  him  at  the  last  moment. 

We  ordered  duck,  the  restaurant's  specialty. 
y  cook  it  in  your  presence,  slice  off  whatever  is 


52       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

sliceable,  and  then  put  the  bird  in  a  press  and  give 
you  the  result  as  gravy.  After  the  meal  they  hand 
you  a  post  card  on  winch  is  inscribed  le  numero  de 
votre  canard.  I  looked  up  "canard"  in  my  diction- 
ary and  found  that  it  meant  a  drake,  or  false  news, 
or  a  worthless  newspaper.  I  have  heard  lots  of 
false  news,  but  I  know  no  one  took  the  trouble  to 
count  the  items.  Also  I  know  that  my  newspaper 
is  neither  worthless  nor  numbered.  So  canard  in 
this  case  must  mean  drake.  The  number  of  mine 
was  41654.  If  he  had  happened  to  disagree  with 
me,  I  could  have  taken  his  number  and  traced  him 
to  the  source.  It's  a  very  good  idea  and  might 
be  used  in  America  on  eggs  or  drinks. 

I  made  another  trip  to  the  office  which  is  sup- 
posed to  be  in  charge  of  American  correspondents 
and  accommodations  for  them.  I  will  go  there 
again  to-morrow  and  again  the  next  day.  I  will 
bother  them  to  death.  Meantime  I  have  applied  to 
a  person  in  London  for  permission  to  go  to  the 
British  front,  and  have  been  assured  a  visit  to  the 
French  lines  late  next  week.  I  have  wonderful 
vision  and  can  see  things  twelve  miles  away. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       53 

P.  S.  It  was  revealed  to  me  to-night  that  my 
detention  and  trial  in  Bordeaux  was  a  frame-up 
conceived  by  loving  friends  aboard  ship  and  carried 
out  by  that  English-speaking  cross-examiner,  who, 
believe  me,  is  a  convincing  actor. 

Thanks,  gents.  It  was  good  for  about  two  thou- 
sand words. 


Ill 

I  TRY  TO  GET  TO  THE  AMERICAN  CAMP 
—BUT  MEET  DISASTER 

Wednesday,  August  22.     Paris. 

The  gentlemen  authorized  to  issue  visitors'  passes 
to  the  American  camp  and  the  various  fronts  don't 
seem  to  realize  that  a  person  may  be  in  a  hurry. 
They  fail  to  appreciate  the  facts  that  hanging 
round  Paris  is  financial  ruin  and  that  the  world 
series,  which  one  positively  must  attend,  is  drawing 
nearer  every  hour. 

Permission  to  go  to  the  British  front  was  re- 
quested over  a  week  ago.  No  reply.  Daily  calls 
at  our  own  press  bureau  produce  nothing  but  prom- 
ises of  a  trip  somewhere,  some  time.  Monsieur  Boss 
of  the  French  Maison  de  la  Presse  says  I  may  be 
taken  through  the  devastated  territory — in  a  week 
or  so. 

54' 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       55 

Meanwhile  the  Battle  of  Paris  goes  on,  with 
Death  always  staring  one  in  the  face — Death  from 
taxis,  from  starvation,  from  water  thirst,  from 
hand-to-hand  encounters  with  the  language. 

Death  from  a  taxi  is  the  most  likely  form  and 
the  most  distressing,  for  under  the  Parisian  law  the 
person  run  down  and  killed  is  the  one  at  fault  and 
the  corpus  delicti  is  liable  to  life  imprisonment  or 
worse.  A  pedestrian  has  no  more  rights  here  than 
the  Kaiser,  and  it's  almost  impossible  to  cross  the 
street  unless  you've  gone  through  a  course  of  in- 
tensive training  in  Detroit. 

There  would  be  little  danger  if  all  the  crossings 
were  on  the  upgrade,  for  the  French  cars — those 
which  aren't  in  the  military  service — have  a  des- 
perate time  climbing.  They  have  to  shift  speeds 
even  to  run  up  on  the  sidewalk,  which  is  one  of 
their  favorite  sports.  But  the  Loop  District  of 
Paris  is  topographically  on  the  level,  and  taxis  can 
tear  along  like  an  eastbound  Russian. 

On  occasions  when  you  are  run  into  and  knocked 
down  a  gendarme  appears  on  the  scene  with  pencil 
and  note-book.    He  takes  the  name  and  address  of 


56       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

the  driver  and  escorts  you  to  jail.    If  you  die  there, 
the  driver  is  sent  a  medal  for  marksmanship. 

Taxi  fares  are  cheaper,  probably,  than  anywhere 
else  in  the  world.  They  amount  to  practically  noth- 
ing if  you  have  an  accident — that  is,  a  trip  without 
a  collision  with  something  or  somebody.  But  even 
if  you  enjoy  an  average  tour  and  hit  a  building  or 
another  vehicle  or  a  dog  or  a  person,  they  soak  you 
only  about  half  as  much  as  they  would  in  New  York 
or  Chicago,  where  there  are  far  fewer  thrills  per 
drive. 

The  tariff  from  the  hotel  where  I  put  up  (I 
haven't  found  out  how  much)  to  American  General 
Headquarters,  where  I  go  every  morning  to  be  re- 
fused a  pass  to  the  camps,  is  one  franc  cinquante 
if  you  miss  all  targets.  This  forenoon  it  was  two 
francs  cinquante  because  we  knocked  the  rear  wheel 
off  a  young  boy's  bicycle. 

The  boy,  after  a  hearty  bawling  out  by  the 
driver  and  two  gendarmes,  was  carted  to  a  police 
station.  They'll  hardly  keep  him  in  jail,  though. 
Matteawan  is  the  proper  place  for  a  boy  who  at- 
tempts bicycling  on  the  streets  of  Paris. 


A  pedestrian  has  no  more  rights  here  than  the  Kaiser,  and  it's 
almost  impossible  to  cross  the  street  unless  you've  gone 
through  a  course  of  intensive  training  in  Detroit 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       57 

Thursday,  August  23.     Paris. 

One  of  several  differences  between  an  American 
and  a  Frenchman  is  that  an  American  tries  to  under- 
stand a  Frenchman's  English  and  a  Frenchman 
tries  not  to  understand  an  American's  French. 

To-day  I  wanted  to  go  from  somewhere  to  the 
Hotel  Continental. 

"Hotel  Con-tin-ent-al,"  I  said  to  the  driver. 

He  shook  his  head.  I  repeated.  He  shook  his 
head  again.  This  went  on  till  I  had  pronounced 
the  name  five  times  and  he  had  shaken  his  head  that 
often.  I  said  it  the  sixth  time  just  as  I  had  said  it 
the  other  five. 

"Oh-h-h !"  shouted  the  driver,  his  face  lighting 
up.     "Hotel  Con-tin-ent-al !" 

And  there  wasn't  a  particle  of  difference  between 
his  version  and  mine. 

There  was  excitement  in  our  village  last  night. 
At  twenty-three-thirty  o'clock,  as  we  Parisians  say, 
began  a  chorus  of  screaming  sirens,  the  warning 
signal  of  an  air  raid.  Those  of  us  living  in  up- 
stairs rooms  experienced  a  sudden  craving  for  a 


58       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

home  Somewhere  in  the  Basement,  and  in  gratify- 
ing it  didn't  stop  to  use  the  elevator.  The  ma- 
jority taking  part  in  the  Great  Descent  wore  pa- 
jamas or.  their  female  relatives,  sometimes  called 
chemises  de  nuit.  A  few,  of  which  I  was  one,  were 
still  attired  for  the  day,  and  we  went  outdoors  and 
looked  up. 

A  regular  flock  of  planes  was,  you  might  say, 
planely  visible,  but  there  was  no  fight  in  the  air 
and  no  dropping  of  bombs  on  our  fair  city.  The 
birdmen  soared  round  a  while  in  a  perfectly  friendly 
manner  and  then  retired  to  their  nests.  The  sirens 
were  stilled  and  we  all  went  up-stairs,  the  majority, 
mentioned  above,  grateful  for  the  war-time  lack  of 
lights. 

It  seems  that  a  Frenchman,  returning  from  his 
day's  toil,  forgot  to  flash  his  password,  which  is  a 
red  tail-light,  or  something.  And  the  patrol  took 
him  for  a  boche  and  gave  chase.  Fortunately  for 
himself,  he  glimpsed  his  pursuers  in  time  and 
turned  on  the  required  signal. 

To-day  there  has  been  a  big  demand  for  first- 
floor  rooms. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       59 

Friday,  August  %Jh     Paris. 

An  American  major — it  is  interdict  by  the  censor 
to  mention  the  names  of  any  officers  save  General 
Sibert  and  General  Pershing — asked  a  friend  in 
London  to  buy  him  an  automobile  and  ship  it  here 
for  his  use.  The  Londoner  was  able,  after  much 
difficult}-,  to  purchase  one  of  those  things  that 
grow  so  rapidly  in  Detroit.  He  packed  it  up  and 
mailed  it  to  Le  Havre.  From  there  it  had  to  be 
driven  to  Paris. 

The  major  had  never  learned  to  drive  this  par- 
ticular brand.  In  fact,  his  proportions  are  such 
that  not  even  a  shoehorn  could  coax  him  into  the 
helmsman's  seat.  He  asked  me  to  go  up  and  get  it 
for  him.  I  declined  on  grounds  of  neutrality.  That 
was  a  week  ago. 

Well,  yesterday  one  Mr.  Kiley,  who  has  been 
over  here  some  time  in  the  ambulance  service,  came 
back  to  town  with  the  car  and  four  flat  tires,  which, 
evidently,  were  far  past  the  draft  age  when  the  sale 
was  made  in  London.  Mr.  Kiley  helped  himself 
to  a  stimulant  and  then  told  me  about  his  trip. 


60       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

He  reached  Le  Havre  last  Saturday  afternoon. 
He  had  in  his  pockets  no  papers  except  an  order  for 
the  car.  He  had  been  in  Le  Havre  about  two  min- 
utes when  a  gentleman  attacked,  him  from  behind 
with  a  tap  on  the  shoulder.  The  gentleman  pulled 
back  his  coat  lapel  and  flashed  a  star  bearing  the 
insignia  of  the  British  Intelligence  Department. 
He  was  curious  as  to  Mr.  Kiley's  name  and  busi- 
ness. Mr.  Kiley  told  him.  Then  he  wanted  to  see 
Mr.  Kiley's  papers.  Mr.  Kiley  showed  him  the 
order  for  the  car. 

"I'm  afraid  that  won't  do,"  said  the  officer.  "I'd 
advise  you  to  leave  town." 

"Give  me  just  an  hour,"  pleaded  Mr.  Kiley,  "just 
time  enough  to  get  the  car  and  get  out." 

"All  right,"  said  the  officer,  "and  be  sure  it's  only 
an  hour." 

Mr.  Kiley  hastened  to  where  the  car  was  re- 
posing, displayed  the  order,  and  started  joyously 
to  wind  her  up.  He  cranked  and  he  cranked  and  he 
cranked.  Nothing  doing.  He  gave  her  a  push 
downhill  and  tried  to  throw  her  into  speed.  Noth- 
ing doing.    It  occurred  to  him  that  something  must 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       61 

be  the  matter.  A  thorough  examination  resulted 
in  a  correct  diagnosis.     There  was  no  gas. 

Next  to  getting  a  drink  of  ice-water  in  Paris,  the 
hardest  job  for  a  stranger  is  buying  gasoline  in  any 
French  town.  Mr.  Kiley  was  turned  down  five  times 
before  eighteen  o'clock,  when  all  the  garages  closed 
for  the  day. 

He  registered  at  a  hotel  and  went  into  the  cafe 
for  dinner.  He  was  just  picking  up  the  carte  du 
jour  when  his  friend,  the  officer,  horned  in. 

"Mr.  Kiley,"  says  this  guy,  "you  have  been  in 
town  more  than  an  hour." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Kiley.  "But  I've  had  trou- 
ble. I  found  my  car,  but  I  can't  run  it  because 
there's  no  essence." 

"I  think  you'd  better  leave  town,"  said  the  officer. 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  said  Mr.  Kiley,  "I'll  leave 
early  in  the  morning." 

"I  wouldn't  mind  if  you  left  right  now,"  said  he. 

There  followed  a  long  discussion  and  a  cross- 
examination  even  crosser  than  mine  in  Bordeaux. 
Mr.  Kiley  revealed  his  whole  f  amity  history  and  won 
the  right  to  stay  overnight,  provided  he  remained 


62       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

indoors  and  departed  from  town  first  thing  in  the 
morninff. 

But  France  is  like  America  in  that  Saturday  is 
usually  succeeded  by  Sunday,  and  when  Mr.  Kiley 
arose  from  his  hotel  bed  and  resumed  his  search  for 
gas  he  found  every  garage  in  town  shut  up  tight. 
As  I  remember  the  United  States,  garages  do  not 
keep  hoty  the  Sabbath  Day  nor  any  other  day.  Over 
here,  however,  everything  closes  on  Sunda}*  except 
churches,  theaters  and  saloons. 

Mr.  Kiley  took  in  the  situation  and  returned  to 
his  room  to  hide.  Shortly  before  midi  there  was  a 
knock  at  his  door  and  a  new  officer  appeared. 

"You  seem  to  like  our  town,  Mr.  Kiley,"  said  he. 

"I'll  leave  it  as  soon  as  I  can  get  away,"  said 
Mr.  Kiley. 

"No  doubt,"  replied  the  officer.  "But  I  believe 
you  will  be  here  a  long  while." 

Mr.  Kiley  tried  to  look  calm. 

"Bone,"  he  said  in  perfectly  good  French. 

"For  the  present,"  said  the  officer,  "}'ou  must  not 
leave  the  hotel.     Later  on  we'll  talk  things  over." 

In  the  cafe  on  Sunday  night  Mr.  Kiley  met  an 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       63 

American  and  told  him  his  troubles.  The  American 
had  a  car  of  his  own  in  Le  Havre  and  plenty  of 
gasoline.  He  would  be  glad  to  give  Mr.  Kiley 
enough  to  start  him  on  his  way. 

"But  I  can't  go,"  said  Mr.  Kiley,  "till  I've  fixed 
it  with  the  police.    I'll  have  to  look  for  them." 

He  didn't  have  far  to  look.  No.  2  was  in  the 
lobby. 

"Yes,"  said  No.  2,  "you  can  leave  town  if  you 
leave  quick.  There  must  be  no  more  foolishness. 
The  only  thing  that  saves  you  from  arrest  is  your 
uniform." 

Mr.  Kiley  left  town  and  left  quick,  and,  aside 
from  his  four  blow-outs,  had  an  uneventful  trip  to 
Paris. 

But  what  if  I  had  taken  that  assignment — I  with 
no  uniform  except  one  willed  me  by  the  Chicago 
Cubs?     OBoy! 

Saturday,  August  #5.     Paris. 

On  advice  of  counsel  I  went  to  Colonel  Anony- 
mous of  the  American  General  Staff  and  besought 
him  to  fix  it  so  that  I  might  get  to  one  of  our  camps 


64*       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

without  further  stalling.  Colonel  Anonymous  said 
it  was  all  right  with  him  and  telephoned  to  Major 
Noname,  who  seemed  to  have  authority  in  affaires 
journalistic. 

Major  Noname,  fortunately,  is  a  baseball  fan. 
I  told  him  what  I  did  know,  and  lots  that  I  didn't 
know  about  our  national  pastime,  and  the  reward 
was  an  American  press  pass  to  the  infantry  camp, 
S.  in  F. 

I  am  going  in  a  horseless  carriage  with  Joe  and 
Howard,  fellow  conspirators  in  the  so-called  jour- 
nalistic game,  and  the  start  is  to  be  made  early 
Monday  morning.  Joe  is  going  to  drive  his  own 
car,  and  I  hope  he  knows  how. 

DimancJw,  26  Aout.   Paris. 

Yesterday  was  Saturday,  and  eve^body  had  had 
a  hot  bath  and  felt  like  doing  something.  Three 
of  us  decided  to  take  in  the  highly  recommended 
show  at  Les  Ambassadeurs. 

A  member  of  the  Theatrical  Geographic  Society 
met  us  in  the  foyer  and  showed  us  a  map  of  the 
playhouse.     From  it  we  were  supposed  to  pick  our 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       65 

scats.  We  chose  three  that,  on  paper,  were  in  the 
sixth  row  in  the  center  aisle.  Our  usher,  female, 
led  us  to  three  which  were  in  the  tenth  row,  off  to 
one  side.  Our  usher  stuck  round  as  if  she  expected 
something.  I  was  the  party  with  the  seat  checks, 
and  she  got  nothing.  I  was  ignorant  of  the  rules 
of  the  game.  But  not  for  long.  Pretty  soon  in 
came  three  of  the  World's  Greatest  Fighters,  alias 
Canadian  soldiers,  and  sat  down  behind  us.  Their 
usher  was  more  persistent  than  mine. 

"What  do  you  want?"  demanded  one  who  seemed 
to  be  the  financial  leader.  "I  already  gave  you  a 
franc." 

''Un  franc  pour  trois?"  said  the  lady  in  horror. 

"Yes,  and  that's  enough,"  said  the  Canuck. 
"Aller !"  he  added  in  perfect  Canadian. 

"Je  ne  comprend  pas,"  said  the  lady. 

"Go  to  the  devil  then !"  said  the  Canadian  in  per- 
fect Portuguese. 

The  lady  went  somewhere,  but  whether  to  the 
proper  destination  I  do  not  know. 

"I  wonder  how  much  they  charge  to  get  out," 
wondered  the  Canadian. 


66       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

Along  about  the  middle  of  the  show  our  own 
usher  popped  up  before  me  and  held  out  her  right 
hand,  at  the  same  time  exhibiting  both  teeth  in  an 
ingratiating  smile.  I  shook  the  proffered  hand. 
She  withdrew  her  teeth. 

"Non,  non,  non,  non,"  she  said. 

I  asked  her  what  she  voulez-voued.   She  was  coy. 

"Do  you  want  a  tip?"  I  inquired  in  plain  Mich- 
igan. 

Both  teeth  reappeared.  A  dental  curiosity  drove 
me  to  hand  her  three  francs.  I  had  not  underesti- 
mated. 

In  the  second  act  a  very  nice-looking  lady  sang 
A  Broken  Doll  in  plain  Thirty-ninth  Street.  The 
stage  chorus  tried  to  help  her  out  on  the  second 
refrain,  but,  with  all  due  modesty,  I  must  say  that 
it  was  the  Canadians  and  I  who  earned  the  vocifer- 
ous encore. 

Limdi,  27  Aout.    Paris. 

The  first  batch  of  laundry  was  back  when  I  re- 
turned from  the  theater  Saturday  night.  Collars 
were  done  up  in  a  neat  package,  tied  with  baby- 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       67 

blue  ribbon.  They  looked  just  as  when  I  had  sent 
them  out  except  that  there  was  a  high,  shiny  polish 
over  the  soiled  spots.  As  for  handkerchiefs,  let  U3 
follow  the  British  communique  style: 

"Eleven  of  our  handkerchiefs  went  over  the 
Blanchisserie  lines.  Two  came  back.  Nine  are 
missing." 

Some  practical  joker  suggested  that  I  go  out 
yesterday  afternoon  and  watch  a  baseball  game  be- 
tween a  Canadian  team  and  a  club  from  the  Amer- 
ican Red  Cross.  St.  Cloud  was  the  battle  ground. 
You  pronounce  St.  Cloud  exactly  as  it  is  not  spelled. 

A  taxi  man  took  us  out  there  by  way  of  Kansas 
City  and  El  Paso,  and  during  the  forty  minutes' 
trip  he  was  in  high  speed  at  least  one  minute.  We 
bumped  into  a  ceremony  of  awards.  French  sol- 
diers to  the  number  of  two  hundred  were  being 
given  the  Croix  de  Guerre. 

The  ceremony  over,  we  crossed  the  race  track 
and  got  on  to  the  baseball  field.  There  was  an 
hour  of  badly  needed  practise,  and  then  the  two 
belligerents  went  at  each  other  in  a  so-called  ball 


68       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

game.  It  was  stopped  at  the  end  of  the  eighth  inn- 
ing on  account  of  rain,  eight  innings  too  late. 

The  rain,  I  am  told,  was  long  overdue,  and  we 
may  expect  gobs  of  it  between  now  and  then. 

I  am  writing  tins  early  Monday  morning,  and 
early  Monday  morning  is  when  we  were  supposed 
to  start  for  the  American  camp.  But  there  seems 
to  be  a  difference  of  opinion  over  the  meaning  of 
the  French  adverb  "early." 

Tuesday,  August  £8.     Somewhere  in  France. 

"Early"  proved  to  be  half  past  ten  yesterday 
morning.  Joe  drove  us  to  the  city  limits,  and  there 
we  had  to  pause.  According  to  this  year's  rules, 
ye  automobilist  pauses  at  the  limits,  has  his  gaso- 
line measured,  and  then  goes  on.  Returning  to 
town,  he  has  to  pay  a  tax  on  the  added  amount  of 
gasoline  he  brings,  or  something  like  that. 

We  were  allowed  to  go  out  of  town,  and  some 
thirty  yards  beyond  the  limits  we  found  a  garage. 
There  we  filled  up  with  essence.  Howard  did  the 
cranking,  which  is  a  necessity  with  all  French  cars, 
and  away  we  went. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       69 

It  was  raining  and  it  was  cold.  Joe  and  Howard 
were  in  the  front  seat,  Joe  driving  and  Howard 
studying  the  road  map.  I  was  in  the  back  seat, 
catching  cold. 

"We'll  go  right  ahead,"  said  Joe,  "to  Such  and 
Such  a  Place,  and  there  we'll  stop  and  have  lunch." 

Well,  we  stopped  in  Such  and  Such  a  Place,  but 
it  was  not  from  a  desire  of  lunch.  It  was  because 
we  were  compelled  to  stop. 

"Let's  see  jour  papers,"  said  the  stopper  in 
French. 

The  stoppees,  in  English,  displayed  their  passes 
to  the  American  camp.  The  stopper  didn't  know 
whether  they  were  good  or  not.  He  asked  us  to 
wait  a  moment  and  disappeared  out  of  the  rain. 
We  waited  several  moments.  Finally  there  appeared 
another  stopper,  who  read  carefully  our  passes  and 
told  us  they  were  no  good  and  that  we  would  have 
to  loom  up  at  the  City  Hall. 

We  went  there,  with  Joe  and  Howard  in  the 
front  seat  and  an  officer  and  I  in  the  back,  me  still 
catching  cold,  especially  in  the  feet. 

In  the  City  Hall  were  French  officers  attired  in 


70       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

all  colors  of  the  French  army,  which  made  the  colors 
of  the  rainbow  look  like  Simon  Pure  White.  Our 
crime,  it  seems,  was  in  not  having  an  automobile 
pass  on  a  red  card.  Or  maybe  it  was  blue.  One  of 
the  thirty  gentlemen  in  charge  said  we  would  have 
to  wait  till  he  telephoned  back  to  Paris.  Knowing 
the  French  telephone  system,  we  inquired  whether 
we  might  go  across  the  street  and  eat.  We  were 
told  we  might. 

We  went  across  the  street  and  ate,  and  it  was  a 
good  meal,  with  meat,  on  a  day  which  was  meatless 
in  Paris.  A  subaltern  interrupted  the  orgy  and  said 
we  were  wanted  back  in  the  City  Hall.  Back  there 
the  startling  information  was  that  no  telephonic 
satisfaction  had  been  obtained.  We  asked  whether 
we  might  go  back  to  the  cafe.  There  was  no  ob- 
jection. We  played  pitch.  French  soldiers  by 
scores  came  up  and  looked  on.  Joe  thought,  sub 
rosa,  that  it  would  be  a  grand  idea  to  startle  'em. 
So  we  played  pitch  for  one  hundred  francs  a  hand, 
it  being  tacitly  understood  that  the  money  didn't 
go.    But  we  certainly  had  them  excited. 

Between    pitch    games    in    which   thousands    of 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       71 

francs  were  apparently  lost  and  won,  we  visited,  on 
summons,  the  City  Hall  five  or  six  times.  Every 
time  there  was  the  same  heavy  barrage  of  francais. 
Entered,  finally,  an  English-speaking  gent  who 
said  we  might  leave  the  city  provided  we  went 
straight  back  to  Paris. 

"We'd  much  prefer,"  said  Joe,  "to  go  on  to 
where  we  were  going." 

"You  have  the  choice,"  was  the  reply,  "of  re- 
turning to  Paris  or  remaining  here,  in  jail." 

Paris  sounded  the  more  attractive.  They  gave 
us  back  our  car  and  away  we  went.  It  was  after 
twenty  o'clock,  and  it  was  pitch  dark,  and  it  was 
cold,  and  it  was  raining.  And  the  man  who  had 
made  the  machine  had  forgotten  to  equip  it  with 
headlights. 

A  little  before  midnight,  on  the  downhill  main 
street  of  a  village,  we  saw  ahead  of  us  a  wagon.  It 
was  two  feet  ahead  of  us.  There  being  nothing 
else  to  do  we  banged  into  it.  Then  we  stopped. 
The  driver  of  the  wagon  sat  suddenly  down  in  the 
middle  of  the  street  and  apologized.  We  all  got  out 
to  see  whether  any  damage  had  been  done  to  the 


72       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

car.  The  only  wounds  discernible  in  the  darkness 
were  a  smashed  radiator  and  a  bent  axle. 

"It's  lucky  this  happened  in  a  town,"  said  I. 
"We  can  probably  find  a  hotel." 

"We're  not  going  to  look  for  one,"  said  Joe. 
"We're  going  to  drive  to  Paris." 

We  got  back  in  and,  to  our  amazement,  the  darn 
tiling  started.  There  was  plenty  of  headlight  now, 
for  the  whole  hood  was  ablaze.  All  lit  up  like  a 
church,  we  went  on  our  mad  career  until  our  convey- 
ance dropped  dead,  overcome  by  the  heat.  This  was 
four  miles  from  a  town  that  will  be  famous  in  the 
histories  of  this  war. 

"I  guess  we're  through,"  said  Joe.  "One  of  us 
will  have  to  stay  with  the  car  and  see  that  nothing 
is  stolen.  The  other  two  can  go  back  to  town  and 
find  a  bed." 

By  a  vote  of  two  to  one,  Howard  was  elected  to 
stay  with  the  car.     He  was  the  youngest. 

Joe  and  I  hiked  our  four  miles  in  silence.  The 
town  was  as  brilliantly  lighted  as  a  cemetery  and 
apparently  void  of  inmates.  We  groped  for  an 
hour  in  a  vain  search  for  a  hostelry.    At  length 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       73 

we  gave  up  and  resolved  to  sleep  on  the  huge 
cathedral's  front  porch.  We  were  ascending  the 
steps  when  a  door  opened  and  a  human  being  stood 
before  us. 

"Arrested  again,"  thought  I. 

But  the  human  being  turned  out  to  be  not  a  cop- 
per, but  a  priest. 

"Bon  soir,  monsieur,"  said  Joe.  "Voulez-vous 
show  us  ou  we  can  find  a  hotel?" 

He  led  us  across  the  street  to  a  place  we  had 
doped  out  as  the  high  school.  He  rapped  on  the 
door  with  his  foot.  In  a  few  moments  an  aged  lady, 
dressed  for  the  night,  appeared.  There  was  a  rapid 
exchange  of  francais,  after  which  we  thanked  the 
priest  and  were  taken  through  a  courtyard  and  up- 
stairs to  our  room.  We  said  a  prayer  for  Howard 
and  went  to  sleep,  and  I  had  a  nightmare.  I 
dreamed  of  a  porterhouse  steak. 

This  morning  we  decided  it  wouldn't  be  clubby 
to  have  breakfast  before  we  had  rescued  Howard 
and  the  car.  We  went  to  a  garage  which  was 
equipped  with  a  beautiful  lady,  but  no  automobiles 
nor  tow-ropes.    We  found  a  livery  stable  that  had 


74       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

every  thing  but  a  horse.  We  commandeered  a  young 
man's  delivery  cart  from  in  front  of  a  grocery 
store  and  drove  out  to  the  scene  of  our  car's  demise. 
Howard  and  the  corpse  were  still  there.  Howard 
thought  it  would  be  a  good  idea  to  go  to  the  near- 
est farm-house  and  rent  a  horse  and  a  rope  from  the 
proprietor.  The  proprietor  was  very  ignorant.  He 
couldn't  understand  our  French.  But  in  his  employ 
was  a  German  prisoner  who  could  talk  his  own 
language  and  ours  and  the  funny  one  that  is  pre- 
valent round  here.  He  explained  our  wants  to  the 
farmer  and  there  ensued  a  few  moments  of  hag- 
gling over  price.  We  finally  rented  two  horses  and 
a  rope  for  fifty  francs  and  dragged  the  car  back 
to  town.  From  the  looks  of  it,  in  daylight,  I  would 
say  the  economical  course  would  have  been  to  leave 
it  out  there  in  the  road  and  keep  the  fifty  francs. 

The  garage  man  says,  in  English,  that  he  can 
make  the  necessary  "reparations"  in  three  weeks. 
So  far  as  I'm  concerned,  he  can  devote  three  years 
to  the  job.  Hereafter  I'll  do  my  cross-countrjr 
flitting  about  on  a  train. 

It's  on  one  now,  Paris  bound,  that  I'm  writing. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       75 

There  is  nothing  to  do  but  write,  for  Howard  is 
getting  the  sleep  he  missed  last  night  and  Joe  is 
too  angry  to  talk.     He  has  spoken  one  sentence 
since  we  got  up  this  morning. 
"This  is  a  queer  war,"  he  said. 


IV 

FINALLY  I  GET  TO  THE  AMERICAN 
CAMP ;  WHAT  I  FIND  THERE 

Thursday,  August  SO.     At  cm  American  Camp. 

Me  and  a  regular  American  correspondent,  Mr. 
Bazin,  who  has  been  here  since  before  the  war,  but 
is  still  good-natured,  took  the  train  from  Paris  this 
morning  and  reached  our  destination  shortly  after 
lunch  time.  This  is  one  of  a  string  of  villages  in 
which  the  main  body  of  the  Expeditionary  Forces 
arc  billeted. 

VVc  were  met  at  the  train  by  one  of  the  corre- 
spondents' cars,  a  regular  he-man  of  a  car  from 
home,  with  eight  cylinders  and  everything.  Each 
correspondent  rents  a  seat  in  one  of  the  machines 
at  a  cost  of  sixty  dollars  a  week.  For  this  trifling 
sum  he  may  be  driven  anywhere  he  wants  to  go 
along  the  line. 

The  correspondents  have  a  tough  life.  They  are 
76 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       77 

quartered  in  a  good — judged  by  French  standards 
— hotel,  and  are  not  what  you  could  call  overworked. 
There  is  nothing  to  write  about,  and  if  you  wrote 
about  it  you  probably  couldn't  get  it  through. 

Mr.  Corey,  one  of  these  slaves,  invited  me  to  ac- 
company him  to  an  infantry  billet,  some  eighteen 
miles  distant.  We  sailed  along  over  the  perfect 
roads  at  an  average  speed  of  about  sixty,  slowing 
up  in  the  villages  to  dodge  a  harmless  course  among 
the  cows,  chickens  and  children,  all  of  whom  use 
the  middle  of  Main  Street  for  their  playground. 

We  passed  an  occasional  soldier,  but  it  was  a 
nice  clear  da}',  and  the  large  majority  were  out  in 
the  fields  and  hills  rehearsing.  Our  boys,  I'm  told, 
are  getting  quite  a  workout.  Usually  they  leave 
their  billets  at  seven  in  the  morning,  walk  from  six 
to  twelve  miles  to  a  drill  ground,  and  work  till  half 
past  four  in  the  afternoon.  Then  the}'  take  the 
long  hike  "home"  and  wonder  how  soon  supper  will 
be  ready.  Frequently,  however,  there  is  practise  in 
night  trench  warfare,  and  then  the  grind  continues 
till  ten  or  eleven  o'clock.  The  work  is  hard,  but  so, 
by  this  time,  are  the  boys. 


78       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

The  captain  on  whom  we  called  said  he  was  glad 
to  meet  me,  which  is  the  first  time  that  has  happened 
in  France.  We  asked  him  whether  there  was  any 
news.  He  said  yes,  that  the  Salvation  Army  had 
established  headquarters  in  the  camp. 

"I'm  glad,"  he  remarked,  "that  they've  decided 
to  go  in  on  our  side.  It  may  influence  the  Kaiser's 
friend  Gott." 

The  chief  need  of  the  soldiers,  he  went  on,  was 
amusement.  The  Salvation  Army's  and  Y.  M.  C. 
A.'s  efforts  were  appreciated,  but  continual  rations 
of  soup  and  meat  palled  at  times,  and  a  little  salad 
and  dessert,  in  the  form  of  Charlie  Chaplin  or  the 
Follies,  would  make  life  more  bearable. 

"Some  American  theatrical  producer,"  said  the 
captain,  "could  win  our  undying  gratitude  by  ship- 
ping over  a  stock  company  with  a  small  repertory 
of  shows,  with  music,  and  girls.  I  believe  he'd  find 
it  profitable  too.  When  the  boys  get  paid  they 
don't  know  what  to  do  with  their  money.  There's 
nothing  to  spend  it  on  in  these  parts." 

The  captain  invited  us  to  dinner,  but  we  had  a 
previous    date    with    members    of   the    Censorship 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       79 

Bureau.  These  entertained  us  with  stories  wliich  I 
voluntarily  delete.  From  their  hotel  we  returned 
to  our  own,  held  a  brief  song  service  in  the  corre- 
spondents' mess,  and  called  it  a  day. 

Friday,  August  31.     At  an  American  Camp. 

"Would  you  like  to  meet  General  Sibert?"  asked 
Mr.  Corey. 

General  Sibert's  name  is  one  of  the  two  that  may 
be  mentioned. 

I  said  I  would,  and  we  left  after  breakfast  for  the 
next  village,  where  headquarters  is  situate.  In  the 
outer  office  were  some  clerks  and  a  colonel.  The 
latter  could  never  be  accused  of  excessive  cordiality. 

"The  general  is  busy,"  he  said. 

"How  long  will  he  be  busy?"  inquired  Mr.  Corey. 

"I  have  no  idea,"  said  the  colonel. 

Mr.  Corey  and  I  felt  we  would  be  warmer  out- 
doors, so  we  climbed  back  in  our  car  and  asked  our 
sergeant-driver  to  take  us  to  the  nearest  training 
grounds.  Here  an  infantry  regiment  was  going 
through  simple  drill,  and  calisthentics  which  were 
far  from  simple. 


80       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

The  nearest  captain  approached,  smiled  pleas- 
antly and  asked  what  he  could  do  for  us.  We  in- 
troduced ourselves. 

"Correspondents,  eh?"  he  said. 

"Well,  then,  you  can  do  something  for  us — make 
the  newspapers  and  magazines  quit  calling  us  Sam- 
mies. We've  never  done  anything  to  deserve  a 
name  like  that." 

"What's  the  matter  with  it?"  we  inquired. 

"Everything!"  said  the  captain.  "It  doesn't 
fit,  it  sounds  childish,  and  we  just  naturally  hate 
it." 

We  asked  him  whether  there  was  an  acceptable 
substitute. 

"I  don't  know  of  any,"  he  said.  "In  due  time 
we'll  wish  one  on  ourselves  that  will  have  pep  and 
sound  real.  Meanwhile  call  us  Julias,  Howards — 
anything  you  like,  except  Sammies." 

We  promised  to  do  our  best  for  him,  and  he  was 
grateful  enough  to  invite  us  to  his  mess  for  lunch. 

This  young  man — he  looks  about  twenty-nine — 
hasn't  been  to  his  home,  somewhere  out  West,  since 
he  left  West  Point,  six  years  ago.    He  hasn't  seen 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       81 

a  show  in  six  years.  Mexico  and  the  Philippines 
have  kept  him  busy.  His  promotion  from  lieutenant 
to  captain  is  very  recent,  and  he  still  wears  only  one 
stripe.  "I  suppose  I'll  be  a  major  before  I  get  the 
other,"  he  said.  "A  man  can  hardly  keep  up  with 
his  rank  these  days." 

He  called  our  attention  to  the  physical  condition 
of  his  men. 

"You've  got  to  be  in  the  pink  to  go  through  those 
exercises  without  yelling  for  help,"  he  said.  "These 
fellas  couldn't  have  done  it  a  month  ago.  Now  they 
seldom  get  tired,  though  the  hours  are  pretty  stiff. 
To-day  is  a  cinch.  It's  pay-day,  and  there's  a 
muster  soon  after  lunch.  So  most  of  us  will  get  a 
half  holiday  and  nobod}^!!  object." 

The  captain  blew  his  whistle  to  indicate  that  the 
game  was  over.  His  boys  quit  happily,  and  we 
left  him  after  agreeing  to  show  up  at  his  billet  in 
time  for  lunch. 

"We  have  a  fairly  good  cook,"  he  promised. 
"But  what  is  much  more  important,  we  have  a 
beautiful  young  lady  to  wait  on  us." 

Our  next  stop  was  at  a  trench  school.  Americans, 


82       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

under  French  tutelage,  had  constructed  a  perfect 
— so  we  were  told — system  of  ditches  and  entangle- 
ments, and  had  shown  aptitude  in  learning  the  of- 
fensive and  defensive  points  of  this  pleasant  method 
of  warfare.  They  were  now  engaged  in  bomb- 
throwing  drill.  Some  of  them  had  tried  the  base- 
ball throw,  but  had  found  the  grenades  too  heavy. 
Several  crooked-arm  throws  would  do  things  to  a 
person's  elbow.  But,  according  to  the  officers,  the 
youngsters  had  done  very  well  with  the  bowling 
motion  and  had  surprised  the  French  with  their 
accuracy. 

This  officer,  another  captain,  spoke  in  compli- 
mentary terms  of  the  French  assistance. 

"They've  been  more  than  diligent  with  us,"  said 
He.  "They've  never  shown  impatience  when  we 
failed  to  grab  their  point,  but  have  gone  over  it 
and  over  it  till  we've  learned  it  to  suit  them.  The 
difference  in  languages  makes  it  hard  sometimes 
to  get  what  they're  after,  but  they  eventually  man- 
age to  make  themselves  understood.  The  only  fault 
I  have  to  find  with  them,"  he  confided,  "is  that  they 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       83 

don't  give  us  credit  for  knowing  anything  at  all. 
They  tell  us  this  thing's  a  rifle,  and  the  thing  on 
the  end  of  it  is  a  bayonet,  and  so  forth.  And  one 
of  them  showed  me  a  barbed-wire  entanglement  one 
day,  and  told  me  what  it  was  for.  I'd  always  been 
under  the  mistaken  impression  tliat  it  was  used  for 
bed-clothes." 

We  had  to  turn  down  this  captain's  luncheon  in- 
vitation, but  we  stopped  at  his  house  for  light 
refreshment.  His  lieutenant,  a  young  University 
of  Michigan  boy,  had  come  over  on  the  first  trans- 
port, and  related  interesting  details  of  that  historic 
trip. 

We  went  on  to  the  other  captain's,  and  lunched 
with  him  and  his  major  and  colonel.  The  beautiful 
young  lady  proved  every  bit  as  pretty  as  a  pair  of 
army  shoes.  But  the  food  was  good  and  the  cap- 
tain's French  better.  He  kept  hurling  it  at  the 
beautiful  young  lady,  who  received  it  with  derisive 
laughter.     His  accent,  it  appeared,  was  imposseeb. 

"I  like  to  make  her  laugh,"  he  told  me.  "It  takes 
me  back  home  among  the  coyotes." 


84       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

On  the  street  of  the  village  I  held  converse  with 
a  private,  aged  about  twenty-three.  I  said  I  sup- 
posed he  was  glad  it  was  pay-day. 

"What's  the  difference!"  he  said.  "I  got  more 
money  now  than  Rockefella.  I  ain't  spent  more'n 
a  buck  since  we  been  over,  and  then  it  was  just  to  be 
spendin'  it,  not  because  they  was  anything  to  buy. 
I  seen  a  fella  the  other  day  light  a  cigarette  with 
one  o'  these  here  dirty  twenty-franc  notes.  He  was 
sick  o'  carrying  it  round.  And  they  was  another 
fella  went  up  to  one  o'  these  here  village  belles  and 
slipped  her  a  hundred  francs.  He  never  seen  her 
before,  and  he  won't  never  see  her  again.  He  just 
says  'Souvenir'  and  let  it  go  at  that." 
"Did  she  take  it?" 

"Oh,  I  guess  not!  She's  to  gay  Paree  by  this 
time  already." 

"She  won't  burn  up  that  town  with  a  hundred 
francs." 

"No,  but  all  these  girls  don't  think  o'  nothin' 
but  gettin'  there.  From  what  I  seen  of  it,  I'd  just 
as  soon  be  in  Akron." 

"Oh,  I'd  hardly  say  that!" 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       85 

"Talk  about  spcndin'  money!  They  was  a 
poor  fella  here  last  week  that  got  rid  of  a  lot  of  it. 
He  bought  himself  a  bottle  o'  champagne  wine.  I 
don't  think  he'd  tasted  it  before,  but  it's  cheap  over 
here.  So  he  got  a  hold  o'  this  bottle  and  poured  it 
into  him  like  it  was  excelsior  water,  and  it  acted  on 
him  like  it  was  laughin'  gas.  He  went  up  alongside 
the  officers'  billet  and  sang  'em  a  vocal  solo.  The 
captain  heard  him — you  could  of  heard  him  in  San 
Francisco — and  the  captain  come  out  and  invited 
him  in.  And  when  he  got  him  in  there  he  says: 
'So-and-So,  how  much  did  this  little  bun  cost  you  ?' 
So  the  fella  told  him  a  buck  and  a  half.  So  the 
captain  says:  'You've  underestimated  the  amount 
by  about  seventy  bucks.  You'll  get  you1  next  pay 
the  last  day  of  October.'  " 

I  asked  my  new  friend  how  he  liked  his  billet. 

"Great!"  he  said.  "I  and  a  couple  other  fellas 
has  a  room  next  to  a  pig  on  one  side  and  a  flock  o' 
chickens  on  the  other.  We  never  get  lonesome,  and 
it  makes  it  nice  and  handy  when  we  want  some  ham 
and  eggs.  I  know  one  fella  that  rooms  next  to  a 
settlement  o'  rats.     Night  times  he  sets  his  flash- 


86       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

light  so's  it  throws  a  narrow  path  o'  light  acrost 
the  floor,  then  he  puts  a  little  piece  o'  meat  in  the 
path  and  stands  over  it  with  a  bayonet.  When  Mr. 
Rat  gets  there  the  fella  comes  down  whang  with 
the  bayonet  and  fastens  him  to  the  floor.  It's  good 
target  practise,  and  he'd  ought  to  be  sure  fire  by 
the  time  it's  Huns  instead  o'  rats." 

"Maybe,"  said  I,  "the  Huns  would  know  better 
than  to  come  out  in  the  light." 

"They'd  go  anywheres  for  a  piece  o'  meat,"  said 
the  private. 

He  had  to  depart  and  report  for  muster.  We 
took  another  road  home,  a  road  frequented  by  sheep 
and  railroad  crossings,  both  of  which  slow  you  up 
considerably. 

In  France  the  gates — strong  iron  ones — at  grade 
crossings  are  kept  closed  except  when  some  one 
wants  to  cross  the  tracks.  The  some  one  makes 
known  his  desire  by  tooting  his  horn  or  shouting, 
and  the  gatekeeper — usually  an  old  lady  with  the 
pipe-smoking  habit — comes  out  of  her  shack  and 
opens  the  gates,  expending  anywhere  from  ten  min- 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       87 

utes  to  half  an  hour  on  the  task.  The  salary  at- 
tached to  the  position  is  the  same  as  that  of  a 
French  private:  ten  centimes  a  day,  which  is  two 
cents  in  regular  money.  I  presume  the  gatekeepers 
have  a  hot  time  in  the  old  town  on  pay  night. 

As  for  the  sheep,  when  you  come  up  behind  them 
you  might  as  well  resign  yourself  to  staying  be- 
hind them  till  they  reach  the  village  for  which  they 
are  headed.  They  won't  get  out  of  the  way  of  their 
own  accord,  and  neither  the  dog  nor  the  aged  shep- 
herd will  make  any  effort  to  sidetrack  them. 

Having  led  them  into  the  village,  the  shepherd 
proceeds  to  deliver  them  to  their  respective  owners. 
He  stops  in  front  of  a  house,  plays  a  certain  tune 
on  his  horn,  and  the  sheep  or  sheeps  belonging  to 
that  house  step  out  of  ranks  and  sheepishly  re- 
tire for  the  night,  or  perhaps  sit  up  a  while  in  the 
parlor  and  talk  war  with  the  family. 

There  must  be  a  lot  of  intermarrying  among 
the  sheeps  of  one  village.  A  great  many  of  those 
in  the  flock  we  saw  looked  enough  alike  to  be  cousins 
or  something. 


88       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

Somebody  suggested  a  poker  game  for  this  eve- 
ning's entertainment,  but  I  got  all  I  wanted  of  that 
great  sport  coming  across  the  bounding  blue. 

It  has  rained  only  an  hour  in  two  days,  and  the 
boys  say  we'll  get  it  good  to-morrow. 

Saturday,  September  1.     In  an  American  Camp. 

As  exclusively  predicted  by  everybody,  it  was 
pouring  when  we  arose  this  morning,  but  rain 
doesn't  keep  you  indoors  in  France.  If  it  did,  you 
would  live  indoors. 

We  splashed  the  thirty  miles  to  the  other  end  of 
the  camp  and  inflicted  ourselves  on  a  major  of 
marines.  He  seemed  deliberately  unfriendly  at  first, 
but  it  was  only  his  manner.  After  five  minutes  of 
awkward  monosyllabic  dialogue  he  gave  us  the 
usual  refreshments  and  took  us  out  to  see  the  town, 
the  name  of  which  should  be  Mud  if  it  isn't. 

"This  is  a  grand  climate,"  he  said.  "They  must 
have  had  conscription  to  get  people  to  live  here." 

He  took  us  to  the  camp  kitchen,  of  which  he 
was  evidently  and  justly  proud.  It  was  a  model  of 
convenience  and  cleanliness.    He  spoke  to  the  cook. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       89 

"Are  you  very  busy  ?"  he  asked. 

"No,  sir,"  was  the  reply. 

"Then  I'd  shave  if  I  were  you,"  said  the  major. 

"Daily  shaving,"  he  told  us  when  we  got  out- 
side, "ought  to  be  compulsory  in  our  army  as  it 
is  in  the  British.  When  a  man  hasn't  shaved  he 
isn't  at  his  best,  physically,  morally,  or  mentally. 
When  he  has  he's  got  more  confidence  in  himself; 
his  morale  is  better.  Shaving  has  a  psychological 
effect,  and  I  try  to  impress  my  men  with  the  im- 
portance of  it.  They  say  it's  a  difficult  operation 
here,  but  I  guess  if  the  Tommies  can  do  it  in  the 
trenches,  we  can  in  these  billets." 

We  remarked  on  the  increasing  popularity  of 
mustaches  among  the  men. 

"I  don't  object  to  them,"  said  the  major. 
"Neither  do  I  see  any  sense  to  them.  To  my  mind 
they're  in  a  class  with  monocles  or  an  appendix. 
But  so  long  as  the  men  keep  their  cheeks  and  chins 
smooth,  they're  at  liberty  to  wear  as  much  of  a  mis- 
placed eyebrow  as  they  can  coax  out." 

The  major  showed  us  his  hospital  and  his  den- 
tist shop  and  marched  us  up  a  steep  hill,  where,  in 


90       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

the  rain,  we  saw  a  great  many  interesting  things 
and  promised  not  to  write  about  them. 

After  lunch  we  decided  it  would  be  patriotic  to 
go  home  and  remove  our  wet  clothes.  In  my  case, 
this  meant  spending  the  rest  of  the  day  in  my  room, 
and  that's  where  I  am. 

Sunday,  September  #.     Paris. 

The  driver  assigned  to  take  me  to  the  train, 
which  left  from  the  next  village  this  morning,  lost 
his  way,  and  we  reached  the  station  just  as  the  en- 
gine was  sounding  the  Galli-Curci  note  that  means 
All  Aboard.  There  was  no  time  to  buy  a  ticket, 
and  you  can't  pay  a  cash  fare  on  a  train  in  France. 
But  the  conductor,  or  whatever  you  call  him  here, 
said  I  could  get  a  ticket  at  the  destination,  Paris ; 
in  fact,  I  must  get  a  ticket  or  spend  the  rest  of  my 
unnatural  life  wandering  about  the  station. 

I  found  a  seat  in  a  compartment  in  which  were  a 
young  American  officer,  beginning  his  forty-eight 
hours'  leave,  and  a  young  French  lady  who  looked 
as  if  she  had  been  in  Paris  before.  The  young 
officer  and  I  broke  into  conversation  at  once.     The 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       91 

young  lady  didn't  join  in  till  we  had  gone  nearly 
twenty  kilomet's. 

Captain  Jones,  which  isn't  his  name,  called  atten- 
tion to  the  signs  on  the  window  warning  MM.  Les 
Voyageurs  to  keep  their  anatomies  indoors.  The 
signs  were  in  three  languages.  "Ne  pas  Pencher 
au  Dehors,"  said  the  French.  The  English  was 
"Danger  to  Lean  Outside."  And  the  Wop:  "Non 
Sporgere" — very  brief.  It  was  evident  that  a 
fourth  variation  of  the  warning  had  been  torn  off, 
and  it  didn't  require  a  William  Burns  to  figure  out 
in  what  language  it  had  been  written. 

"If  there  were  a  boche  on  this  train,"  said  Cap- 
tain Jones,  "he  could  lean  his  head  off  without  hurt- 
ing any  one's  feelings." 

"Languages  are  funny,"  continued  the  captain 
sagely.  "The  French  usually  need  more  words 
than  we  do  to  express  the  same  thought.  I  believe 
that  explains  why  they  talk  so  fast — they've  got 
so  much  more  to  say." 

I  inquired  whether  he  knew  French. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said.  "I've  been  over  here  so  long 
that  I  can  even  tell  the  money  apart." 


92       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

The  dining-car  conductor  came  in  to  ask  whether 
we  wanted  the  first  or  second  "serie"  luncheon.  You 
must  reserve  your  seat  at  table  on  trains  here  or 
you  can't  eat.  We  decided  on  the  second,  and  so 
did  our  charming  compartment  mate.  Captain 
Jones,  supposing  she  could  not  understand  English, 
said:    "Shall  you  take  her  to  lunch  or  shall  I?" 

I  was  about  to  be  magnanimous  when  she  re- 
marked, with  a  scornful  glance  at  the  captain:  "I 
shall  myself  take  me  to  lunch  if  monsieur  has  no 
objection." 

The  cap  was  temporarily  groggy,  but  showed 
wonderful  recuperative  powers  and  in  five  minutes 
convinced  her  that  he  would  toss  himself  into  the 
Seine  if  she  refused  to  eat  with  us.  She  accepted, 
after  some  stalling  that  convinced  me  she  had  been 
cordially  inclined  all  the  while. 

General  polite  conversation  ensued,  and  soon  came 
the  inevitable  French  question :  How  many  Amer- 
ican soldiers  were  there  in  France?  I  have  heard 
it  asked  a  million  times,  and  I  have  heard  a  million 
different  answers.  The  captain  gave  the  truthful 
reply :    "I  don't  know." 


g 

<u 

rt 

"o 

en 

>> 

S 

MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       93 

"This  war,"  he  said,  "should  be  called  the  War 
of  Rumors.  The  war  will  be  over  by  Christmas. 
The  war  won't  be  over  for  ten  years.  The  boche 
is  starving.  The  Allies  are  getting  fat.  The 
boche  has  plenty  to  eat.  The  Allies  are  dying  of 
hunger.  Our  last  transport  fleet  sank  five  subs. 
Our  last  transport  fleet  was  sunk  by  a  whole  flotilla 
of  subs.  Montenegro's  going  to  make  a  separate 
peace  with  Bosnia.  There  is  talk  of  peace  negotia- 
tions between  Hungary  and  Indiana.  Ireland,  Bra- 
zil and  Oklahoma  are  going  to  challenge  the  world. 
They're  going  to  move  the  entire  war  to  the  Bal- 
kans and  charge  admission.  The  Kaiser's  d}'ing  of 
whooping  cough.  You  can  learn  anything  you  want 
to  or  don't  want  to  know.  Why" — this  to  me — 
"don't  you  fellas  print  the  truth?" 

"And  where,"  I  asked  him,  "would  you  advise 
us  to  go  and  get  it  ?" 

"The  same  place  I  got  it,"  said  the  captain. 

"And  what  is  it?" 

"I  don't  know." 

We  adjourned  to  the  diner.  A  sign  there  said: 
"Non  Fumeurs."     The  captain  pointed  to  it. 


94       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

"That's  brief  enough,"  he  said.  "That's  once 
when  the  French  is  concise.  But  you  ought  to  see 
the  Chinese  for  that.  I  was  in  a  town  near  the 
British  front  recently  where  some  Chinese  laborers 
are  encamped.  In  the  station  waiting-room,  it  says : 
'No  Smoking'  in  French,  English,  Russian  and 
Italian.  The  Russian  is  something  like  'Do  notski 
smokevitch,'  and  the  Italian  is  'Non  Smokore'.  Re- 
cently they  have  added  a  Chinese  version,  and  it's 
longer  than  the  Bible.  A  moderate  smoker  could 
disobey  the  rules  forty  times  before  he  got  through 
the  first  chapter  and  found  out  what  they  were 
driving  at." 

Be  that  as  it  may,  I  have  observed  that  everybody 
in  France  smokes  whenever  and  wherever  he  or  she 
desires,  regardless  of  signs.  We  did  now,  and  so 
did  our  guest,  while  waiting  for  the  first  course, 
which  was  black  bread  baked  in  a  brickyard. 

"I  would  love  to  go  to  America,"  said  mademoi- 
selle. 

"You  wouldn't  care  for  it,"  replied  the  captain 
promptly.     "It's  too  wild." 

"How  is  it  wild?" 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       95 

"Every  way:  manners,  habits,  morals.  The  ma- 
jority of  the  people,  of  course,  are  Indians,  and 
you  just  can't  make  them  behave." 

She  asked  whether  either  of  us  had  ever  been  in 
New  York.  The  captain  said  he'd  passed  through 
there  once  on  the  way  to  Coney  Island.  She  wanted 
to  know  if  New  York  was  bigger  than  Paris.  "It's 
bigger  than  France,"  said  Captain  Jones. 

Monsieur  was  trying  to  make  a  game  of  her. 

"Well,  anyway,"  said  the  captain,  "you  could 
lose  France  in  Texas." 

What  was  Texas? 

"Texas,"  said  the  captain,  "is  the  place  they  send 
soldiers  when  they've  been  bad.  It's  way  out  west, 
near  Chicago." 

The  lady  had  heard  of  Chicago. 

"This  gentleman  works  there,"  said  the  captain. 
"He's  part  Indian,  but  he  was  educated  at  Carlisle 
and  is  somewhat  civilized.  He  gets  wild  only;  on 
occasions." 

The  lady  regarded  me  rather  scaredly. 

"He  lives  on  the  plains  outside  the  city,"  con- 
tinued the  captain,  "and  rides  to  his  work  and  back 


96       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

on  a  zebra.  Practically  all  the  suburban  savages 
have  zebras,  and  the  Chicago  traffic  police  have  a 
fierce  time  handling  them  during  their  owners'  work- 
ing hours.  They  run  wild  around  the  streets  and 
in  the  department  stores,  and  snap  at  women,  espe- 
cially brunettes." 

We  had  attained  the  potato  course.  The  French 
positively  will"  not  serve  potatoes  as  other  than  a 
separate  course.  I  was  about  to  help  myself  to  a 
generous  portion  when  the  captain  cried :  "Here ! 
Better  leave  those  things  alone.  You  know  what 
they  do  to  you." 

I  told  him  I  didn't  believe  two  or  three  would 
hurt,  and  proceeded  to  take  three. 

"When  a  half  Indian  eats  potatoes,"  said  the 
captain,  "he  usually  forgets  himself  and  runs 
amuck." 

Our  guest  probably  didn't  know  what  a  muck  was, 
but  it  had  an  unpleasant  sound,  and  the  look  she 
gave  me  was  neither  friendly  nor  trusting. 

"The  greatest  difference  between  France  and 
America,"  continued  Captain  Jones,  "is  in  the  peo- 
ple.    In  America  a  man  ordinarily  takes  the  initia- 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       97 

tive  in  striking  up  an  acquaintance  with  a  woman. 
He  has  to  speak  to  her  before  she'll  speak  to  him. 
This  would  never  do  in  France,  where  the  men  are 
too  shy.  Then  there's  a  difference  in  the  way  men 
treat  their  wives  and  horses.  Americans  use  whips 
instead  of  clubs.  And  Americans  have  funny  ideas 
about  their  homes.  Private  bedrooms  and  play- 
rooms are  provided  for  their  pets — zebras,  lizards 
and  wild  cats — and  the  little  fellows  are  given  to 
understand  that  they  must  remain  in  them  and  not 
run  all  over  the  house,  like  one  of  your  cows." 

He  paused  to  ask  me  how  the  potatoes  were  act- 
ing. I  said  it  was  too  soon  to  tell,  but  I  felt  a  little 
dizzy  in  the  head.  He  suggested  it  were  better  to 
go  back  to  our  compartment,  where  there  were  less 
things  to  throw  in  the  event  of  my  reaching  the 
throwing  stage. 

"On  the  other  hand,"  I  said,  "if  I  am  deprived  of 
knives,  forks  and  plates,  I  will  pick  on  human  be- 
ings, and  I  usually  aim  out  the  windows." 

But  he  said  he  was  sick  of  the  atmosphere  in  the 
diner.  We  asked  for  l'addition  and  argued  over  who 
should  pay  it.     I  won,  and  when  he  had  been  given 


98       MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

his  change  we  returned  to  our  own  car,  where 
mademoiselle  demonstrated  her  fear  of  my  expected 
outbreak  by  going  to  sleep. 

We  turned  our  attention  to  the  scenery,  the  most 
striking  feature  of  which  was  the  abundance  of 
boche  prisoners  at  work  in  the  fields. 

"Lucky  stiffs !"  said  the  captain.  "The  war  is 
over  for  them  if  they  can  just  manage  not  to 
escape,  and  I  guess  there's  no  difficulty  about  that. 
Better  food  than  the  soldiers,  a  soft  job,  and  a  bed 
to  sleep  in.  And  wages  besides.  Every  private  in 
the  Fritz  army  would  surrender  if  the  officers  hadn't 
given  them  a  lot  of  bunk  about  the  way  German 
prisoners  are  treated.  They  make  them  believe  we 
cut  off  their  feet  and  ears  and  give  them  one  peanut 
and  a  glass  of  water  every  two  weeks." 

Paris  hove  into  view,  and  we  quarreled  about  the 
girl.  The  fair  thing,  we  decided,  would  be  to  turn 
over  her  and  her  baggage  to  a  porter  and  wish  her 
many  happy  returns  of  the  day.  We  were  spared 
this  painful  duty,  however,  for  when  she  awoke  she 
treated  both  of  us  as  strangers.  And  the  gentle- 
man who  attended  to  her  baggage  was  not  a  porter, 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE       99 

but  a  French  aviator,  waiting  on  the  station  plat- 
form for  that  very  purpose. 

"She'll  tell  him,"  guessed  the  captain,  "that  an 
American  soldier  and  half  Indian  tried  to  flirt  with 
her  on  the  train,  but  she  froze  them  out." 

Captain  Jones  stuck  with  me  till  my  exit  ticket 
was  procured,  a  chore  that  ate  up  over  an  hour. 
Then  we  climbed  into  a  dreadnought  and  came  to 
this  hotel,  where  I  sat  right  down  and  versified  as 
follows : 

TO  AN  AMERICAN  SOLDIER 

If  you  don't  like  the  nickname  Sammy, 

If  it's  not  all  a  nickname  should  be, 

You  can  pick  out  Pat  or  Mike, 

Whatever  name  you  like — 

It  won't  make  no  difference  to  me. 

Want  a  Thomas  or  Harry  or  Dick  name? 

Dost  prefer  to  be  called  Joe  or  Lou? 

You've  a  right  to  your  choice  of  a  nickname; 

Oh,  Mr.  Yank,  it's  up  to  you. 


MY  ADVENTURES  AT  THE  BRITISH 
FRONT 

Monday,  September  3.     Paris. 

In  this  morning's  mail  was  a  letter  from  Some- 
where in  London,  replying  favorably  to  my  request 
to  go  to  the  British  front.  I  was  directed  to  take 
the  letter  to  the  assistant  provost  marshal,  who 
would  slip  me  a  pass  and  inform  me  as  to  the  details 
of  the  trip. 

At  the  A.  P.  M.'s  I  was  given  the  pass  and  with 
it  "an  undertaking  to  be  signed  by  all  intending 
visitors  to  the  front."  There  are  ten  rules  in  the 
undertaking,  and  some  of  them  are  going  to  be 
hard  to  obey.     For  example: 

"I  understand  that  it  is  impossible  to  arrange 
for  me  to  see  relatives  serving  with  the  fighting 

forces." 

"I  will  not  visit  the  enemy  front  during  the  pres- 
ent war." 

100 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     101 

But  No.  6  is  the  tough  one: 

"In  no  circumstances  will  I  deliver  a  political  or 
electioneering  speech  to  troops." 

I  must  pray  for  strength  to  resist  natural  im- 
pulses along  this  line. 

Wednesday  morning,  said  the  A.  P.  M.,  would  be 
our  starting  time.  And  he  told  us  when  and  where 
to  take  the  train — "us"  because  I  am  to  be  accom- 
panied by  a  regular  correspondent,  one  who  carries 
a  cane  and  everything. 

Mr.  Gibbons,  the  regular  correspondent,  informs 
me  I  must  wear  a  uniform,  and  to-morrow  morning 
I  am  to  try  on  his  extra  one,  which  he  has  kindly 
offered. 

Another  chore  scheduled  for  to-morrow  is  the 
squaring  of  myself  with  the  boss  of  the  French 
Maison  de  la  Presse,  who  invited  me  to  visit  the 
devastated  territory  Thursday  and  Friday.  The 
invitation  was  accepted,  but  the  British  and  French 
dates  conflict,  and  I  would  rather  see  one  real,  live 
front  than  any  number  of  broken-down  barns  and 
boched  trees. 


102     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

Tuesday,  September  4-     Paris. 

I  reported,  after  the  French  idea  of  breakfast, 
at  the  Maison  de  la  Presse.  This  is  situate  on  the 
fourth  floor  of  a  building  equipped  with  an  elevator 
that  proves  the  fallacy  of  the  proverb  "What  goes 
up  must  come  down."  You  can  dimly  see  it  at  the 
top  of  the  shaft,  and  no  amount  of  button  pushing 
or  rope  pulling  budges  it. 

During  the  long  climb  I  rehearsed  the  speech  of 
apology  and  condolence  framed  last  night,  and  won- 
dered whether  monsieur  would  be  game  and  try  to 
smile  or  break  down  completely  or  fly  into  a  rage. 
He  was  game,  and  he  not  only  tried  to  smile,  but 
succeeded.  And  his  smile  was  in  perfect  simulation 
of  relief.     These  French  are  wonderful  actors. 

I  returned  thence  to  Mr.  Gibbons'  room  for  my 
fitting.  His  extra  uniform  consisted  of  a  British 
officer's  coat  and  riding  breeches,  puttees  and  shoes. 
Cap  and  khaki  shirt  I  had  to  go  out  and  purchase. 
The  store  I  first  selected  was  a  gyp  joint  and  wanted 
twenty-seven  francs  for  a  cap.  I  went  to  another 
store  and  got  exactly  the  same  thing  for  twenty- 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     103 

six.  A  careful  shopper  can  save  a  lot  of  money  in 
Paris. 

Provided  with  cap  and  shirt,  the  latter  costing 
a  franc  less  than  the  former,  I  went  to  a  secluded 
spot  and  tried  on  the  outfit,  Mr.  Gibbons  assist- 
ing. We  managed  the  puttees  in  thirty-five  minutes. 
It  is  said  that  a  man  working  alone  can  don  them 
in  an  hour,  provided  he  is  experienced. 

"You  look,"  Mr.  Gibbons  remarked  when  I  was 
fully  dressed,  "as  if  3*ou  had  been  poured  into  it." 

But  I  felt  as  if  I  hadn't  said  "when"  quite  soon 
enough.  Mr.  Gibbons  and  I  differ  in  two  important 
particulars — knee  joints — and  though  I  tried  to 
seem  perfectly  comfortable,  my  knees  were  fairly 
groaning  to  be  free  of  the  breeches  and  out  in  the 
open  fields. 

"Wear  it  the  rest  of  the  day  and  get  used  to 
it,"  advised  Mr.  Gibbons. 

"No,"  I  said.  "I  don't  want  to  rumple  it  all  up. 
I  want  to  keep  it  neat  for  to-morrow."  And  against 
his  protest  I  tore  myself  out  and  resumed  my  hum- 
ble Chicago  garb. 

It's  no  wonder  regular  correspondents  and  Brit- 


104     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

ish  officers  are  obliged  to  wear  canes.     The  wonder 
is  that  they  don't  use  crutches. 

We  leave  at  nine  to-morrow  morning.  Tins 
means  that  myself  and  puttees  will  have  to  get  up 
at  four. 

Wednesday,  September  5.     With  the  British. 

The  major  has  a  very  good  sense  of  the  fitness  of 
things.  The  room  where  I'm  writing,  by  candle- 
light, is  the  best  guest  room  in  our  chateau  and  was 
once  occupied  by  the  queen. 

The  rules  of  the  household  call  for  the  dousing 
of  down-stairs  glims  at  eleven  o'clock.  After  that 
you  may  either  remain  down  there  in  total  dark- 
ness or  come  up  here  and  bask  in  the  brilliant  rays 
of  a  candle.  You  should,  I  presume,  be  sleepy 
enough  to  go  right  to  bed,  but  you're  afraid  you 
might  forget  something  if  you  put  off  the  day's 
record  till  to-morrow. 

I  overslept  myself,  as  they  say,  and  had  to  get 
Mr.  Gibbons  to  help  with  the  puttees.  The  lower 
part  of  the  breeches,  I  found,  could  be  loosened  just 
enough  to  make  the  knee  area  inhabitable. 


i 


'You   look   as   if   you   hud   been   poured  into   it' 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     105 

We  skipped  breakfast  and  reached  the  station  in 
a  taxi  without  hitting  anything.  It  was  fifteen  min- 
utes before  train  time,  but  there  wasn't  a  vacant 
seat  in  the  train.  A  few  of  the  seats  were  occupied 
by  poilus,  and  the  rest  by  poilus'  parcels  and  news- 
papers. A  Frenchman  always  gets  to  a  nine  o'clock 
train  by  seven-thirty.  He  picks  one  seat  for  him- 
self and  one  or  two  on  each  side  of  him  for  his 
impedimenta.  This  usually  insures  him  privacy 
and  plenty  of  room,  for  it  is  considered  an  overt 
act  even  to  pick  up  a  magazine  and  sit  in  its  place. 
Mr.  Gibbons  and  I  walked  from  one  end  of  the  train 
to  the  other  and  half-way  back  again  without  any 
one's  taking  a  hint.  We  climbed  into  a  carriage 
just  as  she  started  to  move.  There  were  six  seats 
and  three  occupants.  We  inquired  whether  all  the 
seats  were  reserved,  and  were  given  to  understand 
that  they  were,  the  owners  of  three  having  gone  to 
a  mythical  dining-car. 

We  went  into  the  aisle  and  found  standing  room 
among  the  Australians  and  Canadians  returning 
from  their  leave.  One  of  the  former,  a  young,  red- 
headed, scrappy-looking  captain,  smiled  sympathet- 


106     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

icallj  and  broke  open  a  conversation.  I  was  glad 
of  it,  for  it  gave  me  an  opportunity  of  further 
study  of  the  language.  I  am  a  glutton  for  lan- 
guages, and  the  whole  day  has  been  a  feast.  We 
have  listened  to  six  different  kinds — Australian, 
Canadian,  British,  French,  Chinese  and  Harvard. 
I  have  acquired  an  almost  perfect  understanding  of 
British,  Australian  and  Canadian,  which  are  some- 
what similar,  and  of  Harvard,  which  I  studied  a 
little  back  home.  French  and  Chinese  I  find  more 
difficult,  and  I  doubt  that  any  one  could  master 
either  inside  of  a  month  or  so. 

The  red-headed  captain  remarked  on  the  crowded 
condition  of  the  trine.  That  is  Australian  as  well 
as  British  for  train.  The  Canadian  is  like  our 
word,  and  the  French  is  spelled  the  same,  but  is 
pronounced  as  if  a  goat  were  saying  it.  Lack  of 
space  prevents  the  publication  of  the  Chinese  term. 

One  of  the  captain's  best  pals,  he  told  us,  had 
just  been  severely  wounded.  He  was  a  gime  one, 
though  even  smaller  than  the  captain.  The  cap- 
tain recalled  one  night  when  he,  the  pal,  took  pris- 
oner a  boche  lieutenant  who  stood  over  six  feet. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     107 

Fritz  was  asked  whether  he  spoke  English.  He 
shook  his  head.  He  was  asked  whether  he  spoke 
French.  He  lost  his  temper  and,  in  English,  called 
the  entire  continent  of  Australia  a  bad  name.  The 
captain's  little  pal  then  marched  him  off  to  the 
proper  authority,  to  be  questioned  in  English.  On 
the  way  the  captain's  little  pal  made  him  take  off 
his  helmet  and  give  it  to  him.  This  was  as  punish- 
ment for  what  Fritz  had  said  about  Australia. 

Before  the  proper  authority  Fritz  was  as  sweet- 
tempered  as  a  bloody  bear.  This  puzzled  the 
proper  authority,  for  making  a  boche  prisoner  is 
doing  him  a  big  favor. 

"What  iles  you  ?"  asked  the  authority  when  Fritz 
had  refused  to  reply  to  any  of  a  dozen  questions. 
"You  ine't  the  first  bloody  boche  officer  we've  tiken." 

Then  Fritz  bared  his  grievance.  He  didn't  mind, 
he  said,  being  a  prisoner.  The  size  of  his  captor 
was  the  thing  that  galled.  "And  for  Gott's  sake," 
he  added,  "make  him  give  back  my  helmet." 

The  proper  authority  turned  to  the  captain's 
little  pal.  "He's  your  prisoner,"  he  said.  "What 
(do  you  want  to  do  with  the  helmet  ?" 


108     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

"Keep  it,  sir,"  said  the  captain's  little  pal. 
And  it  will  be  used  back  in  Australia  some  day 
to   illustrate   the   story,   which  by   that  time   will 
doubtless  have  more  trimmings. 

"But  how  about  Fritz?"  I  asked.  "When  he 
gets  home  and  tells  the  same  story,  he'll  have  noth- 
ing with  which  to  prove  it." 

"He  ine't  agoin'  to  tell  the  sime  story." 
We  were  welcomed  at  our  destination  by  a  cap- 
tain, another  regular  correspondent,  and  two  good 
English  cars.  The  captain  said  he  was  expecting 
another  guest  on  this  train,  a  Harvard  professor 
on  research  work  bent. 

"I  have  no  idea  what  he  looks  like,"  said  the  cap- 
tain. 

"I  have,"  said  Mr.  Gibbons  and  I  in  concert,  but 
it  went  over  the  top. 

The  professor  appeared  at  length,  and  we  were 
all  whisked  some  thirty  kilometers  to  a  luncheon 
worth  having.  Afterward  we  were  taken  to  the 
Chinese  camp.  Chinatown,  we'll  call  it,  is  where  the 
Chink  laborers  are  mobilized  when  they  first  ar- 
rive and  kept  until  their  various  specialties  are  dis- 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     109 

covered.  Then  each  is  assigned  to  the  job  he  can 
do  best.  I  was  told  I  mustn't  mention  the  number 
of  Chinamen  now  in  France,  but  I  can  say,  in  their 
own  language,  it's  a  biggee  lottee. 

They  wear  a  uniform  that  consists  of  blue  over- 
alls, a  blue  coat,  and  no  shirt  whatever,  which,  I 
think,  is  bad  advertising  for  their  national  trade. 
They  brought  shirts  with  them,  it  seems,  but  are 
more  comfy  without. 

The  minimum  wage  is  three  francs  a  day.  Two- 
thirds  of  what  they  earn  is  paid  them  here,  the  other 
third  given  to  their  families  in  China.  The  sys- 
tem of  hiring  is  unique.  No  names  are  used,  prob- 
ably because  most  Chinks  have  Sam  Lee  as  a 
monniker,  and  the  paymaster  would  get  all  mixed 
up  with  an  army  of  Sam  Lees.  They  are  numbered 
and  their  finger  prints  are  taken  by  an  agent  in 
China.  He  sends  these  identification  marks  to  the 
camp  here,  and  when  the  Chinks  arrive  they  are 
checked  up  by  a  finger-print  expert  from  Scotland 
Yard.  This  gentleman  said  there  had  been  several 
cases  where  the  Chinaman  landing  here  was  a  ringer, 
some  "friend"  back  home  having  signed  up  and 


110     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

then  coaxed  the  ringer  to  come  in  his  place,  believ- 
ing, apparently,  that  the  plot  would  not  be  detected 
and  that  his  profit  would  be  the  one-third  share  of 
the  wage  that  is  paid  in  China.  The  ringer's  family 
would  be  done  out  of  its  pittance,  but  that,  of  course, 
would  make  no  difference  to  the  ringer's  friend. 
The  finger-print  system  serves  not  only  to  prevent 
the  success  of  cute  little  schemes  like  that,  but  also 
to  amuse  the  Chinks,  who  are  as  proud  of  their 
prints  as  if  they  had  designed  them. 

We  went  into  the  general  store,  which  is  con- 
ducted by  a  Britisher.  The  Chinese  had  just  had 
a  pay-day  and  were  wild  to  spend.  One  of  them 
said  he  wanted  a  razor.  The  proprietor  produced 
one  in  a  case,  and  the  Chink  handed  over  his  money 
without  even  looking  at  the  tool.  Another  wanted 
a  hat.  The  prop,  gave  him  a  straw  with  a  band 
that  was  all  colors  of  the  rainbow.  The  Chinaman 
paid  for  it  and  took  it  away  without  troubling  to 
see  whether  it  fitted. 

A  block  or  so  from  the  store  we  ran  across  two 
Chinks  who  had  been  naughty.  Each  was  in  a 
stock,  a  pasteboard  affair  on  which  was  inscribed, 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     111 

in  Chinese,  the  nature  of  his  offense.  One  of  them 
had  been  guilty  of  drinking  water  out  of  a  fire 
bucket.  The  other  had  drunk  something  else  out  of 
a  bottle — drunk  too  much  of  it,  in  fact.  They 
looked  utterly  wretched,  and  our  guide  told  us  the 
punishment  was  the  most  severe  that  could  be  given : 
that  a  Chinaman's  pride  was  Iris  most  vulnerable 
spot. 

The  gent  who  had  quenched  his  thirst  from  the 
fire  bucket  was  sentenced  to  wear  his  stock  a  whole 
day.  He  of  the  stew  was  on  the  last  lap  of  a  week's 
term. 

We  talked  with  one  of  the  Lee  family  through 
an  interpreter.  We  asked  him  if  he  knew  that  the 
United  States  was  in  the  war  against  Germany.  He 
replied,  No,  but  he  had  heard  that  France  was. 

Just  before  we  left  the  settlement  a  British  plane 
flew  over  it.  A  Chink  who  was  walking  with  us 
evidently  mistook  it  for  a  Hun  machine,  for  he 
looked  up  and  said :    "Bloody  boche !" 

From  Chinatown  we  were  driven  to  the  American 
Visitors'  Chateau,  where  gentlemen  and  correspond- 
ents from  the  United  States  are  entertained.     It's 


112     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

a  real  chateau,  with  a  moat  and  everything.  The 
major  is  our  host.  The  major  has  seen  most  of 
his  service  in  India  and  China. 

He  said  he  was  glad  to  meet  us,  which  I  doubt. 
The  new  arrivals,  Mr.  Gibbons,  the  Harvard  pro- 
fessor and  myself,  were  shown  our  rooms  and  in- 
formed that  dinner  would  occur  at  eight  o'clock. 
Before  dinner  we  were  plied  with  cocktails  made  by 
our  friend,  the  captain.  The  ingredients,  I  believe, 
were  ether,  arsenic  and  carbolic  acid  in  quantities 
not  quite  sufficient  to  cause  death. 

Eleven  of  us  gathered  around  the  festal  board. 
There  were  the  major  and  his  aids,  three  British 
captains,  one  with  a  monocle.  There  was  the  Har- 
vard professor,  and  the  head  of  a  certain  American 
philanthropical  organization,  and  his  secretary. 
And  then  there  were  us,  me  and  Mr.  Gibbons  and 
Mr.  O'Flaherty  and  Mr.  Somner,  upstarts  in  the 
so-called  journalistic  world. 

The  dinner  was  over  the  eighteen-course  course, 
the  majority  of  the  courses  being  liquid.  I  wanted 
to  smoke  between  the  fish  and  the  sherry,  but  Mr. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE      113 

O'Flaherty  whispered  to  me  that  it  wasn't  done  till 
the  port  had  been  served. 

Mention  was  made  of  the  Chinese  camp,  and  there 
ensued  a  linguistic  battle  between  the  maj  or  and  the 
Harvard  professor.  The  latter  explained  the  theory 
of  the  Chinese  language.  He  made  it  as  clear  as 
mud.  In  the  Chinese  language,  he  said,  every 
letter  was  a  word,  and  the  basis  of  every  word  was 
a  picture.  For  example,  if  you  wanted  to  say  "my 
brother,"  you  drew  a  picture  of  your  brother  in 
your  mind  and  then  expressed  it  in  a  word,  such  as 
woof  or  whang.  If  you  wanted  a  cigar,  you 
thought  of  smoke  and  said  "puff"  or  "blow,"  but 
3tou  said  it  in  Chinese. 

Mr.  Gibbons  broke  up  the  battle  of  China  by 
asking  the  major  whether  I  might  not  be  allowed 
to  accompany  him  and  Mr.  O'Flaherty  and  one  of 
the  captains  on  their  perilous  venture  to-morrow 
night.  They  are  going  to  spend  the  night  in  a 
Canadian  first-line  trench. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  the  major,  "but  the  arrange- 
ment has  been  made  for  only  three." 


114     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

I  choked  back  tears  of  disappointment. 

The  major  has  wished  on  me  for  to-morrow  a 
trip  through,  the  reconquered  territory.  My  com- 
panions are  to  be  the  captain  with  the  monocle,  the 
Harvard  professor,  the  philanthropist,  and  the 
philanthropist's  secretary.  We  are  to  start  off  at 
eight  o'clock.    Perhaps  I  can  manage  to  oversleep. 

Thursday,  September  6.     With  the  British. 

I  did  manage  it,  and  the  car  had  left  when  I  got 
down-stairs.  Mr.  Gibbons  and  Mr.  O'Flaherty 
were  still  here,  and  the  three  of  us  made  another  ef- 
fort to  get  me  invited  to  the  party  to-night.  The 
major  wouldn't  fall  for  it. 

Mr.  Gibbons  and  Mr.  O'Flaherty  motored  to  an 
artillery  school,  the  understanding  being  that  they 
were  to  be  met  at  six  this  evening  by  one  of  our 
captains  and  taken  to  the  trench.  I  was  left  here 
alone  with  the  major. 

We  lunched  together,  and  he  called  my  attention 
to  the  mural  decorations  in  the  dining-room.  It's 
a  rural  mural,  and  in  the  foreground  a  young  lady 
is  milking  a  cow.     She  is  twice  as  big  as  the  cow 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     115 

and  is  seated  in  the  longitude  of  the  cow's  head. 
She  reaches  her  objective  with  arms  that  would 
make  Jess  Willard  jealous.  In  another  area  a  lamb 
is  conversing  with  its  father  and  a  couple  of  squir- 
rels which  are  larger  than  either  lamb  or  parent. 
In  the  lower  right-hand  corner  is  an  ox  with  its 
tongue  in  a  tin  can,  and  the  can  is  labeled  Ox 
Tongue  for  fear  some  one  wouldn't  see  the  point. 
Other  figures  in  the  pictures  are  dogs,  foxes  and 
chickens  of  remarkable  size  and  hue. 

"We  had  a  French  painter  here  a  few  days  ago," 
said  the  major.  "I  purposely  seated  him  where  he 
could  look  at  this  picture.  He  took  one  look,  then 
asked  me  to  change  his  seat." 

The  major  inquired  whether  I  had  noticed  the 
picture  of  the  chateau  which  decorates  the  doors  of 
our  automobiles. 

"When  you  go  out  to-morrow,"  he  said,  "you'll 
observe  that  none  of  the  army  cars  is  without  its 
symbol.  An  artillery  car  has  its  picture  of  a  gun. 
Then  there  are  different  symbols  for  the  different 
divisions.  I  saw  one  the  other  day  with  three  in- 
terrogation marks  painted  on  it.     I  inquired  what 


116     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

they  meant  and  was  told  the  car  belonged  to  the 
Watts  division.     Do  you  see  why?" 

I  admitted  that  I  did. 

"Well,  I  didn't,"  said  the  major,  "not  till  it  was 
explained.     It's  rather  stupid,  I  think." 

This  afternoon  an  American  captain,  anonymous 
of  course,  called  on  us.  He  is  stopping  at  G.  H. 
Q.,  which  is  short  for  General  Headquarters,  his 
job  being  to  study  the  British  strategic  methods. 
He  and  the  major  discussed  the  differences  between 
Americans  and  Englishmen. 

"The  chief  difference  is  in  temperature,"  said  the 
captain.  "You  fellows  are  about  as  warm  as  a 
glacier.  In  America  I  go  up  to  a  man  and  say: 
'My  name  is  Captain  So-an-So.'  He  replies: 
'Mine  is  Colonel  Such-and-Such.'  Then  we  shake 
hands  and  talk.  But  if  I  go  to  an  Englishman  and 
say:  'My  name  is  Captain  So-and-So,'  he  says: 
'Oh !'    So  I'm  embarrassed  to  death  and  can't  talk." 

"  'Strawnary !"  said  the  major. 

At  tea  time  a  courier  brought  us  the  tidings  that 
there'd  been  an  air  raid  last  Sunday  at  a  certain 
hospital  base. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     117 

"The  boche  always  does  his  dirty  work  on  Sun- 
day," remarked  the  American  captain.  "It's  queer, 
too,  because  that's  the  day  that's  supposed  to  be 
kept  holy,  and  I  don't  see  how  the  Kaiser  squares 
himself  with  his  friend  Gott." 

I  laughed,  but  the  major  managed  to  remain 
calm. 

The  American  captain  departed  after  tea,  and 
the  major  and  I  sat  and  bored  each  other  till  the 
Harvard  professor  and  his  illustrious  companions 
returned.  They  told  me  I  missed  a  very  interesting 
trip.     That's  the  kind  of  trip  one  usually  misses. 

At  dinner  we  resumed  our  enlightening  discus- 
sion of  Chinese,  but  it  was  interrupted  when  the 
major  was  called  to  the  telephone.  The  message 
was  from  the  captain  who  was  supposed  to  meet 
Mr.  Gibbons  and  Mr.  O'Flaherty  and  take  them  to 
the  trenches  to  spend  the  night.  The  captain  re- 
ported that  his  machine  had  broken  down  with 
magneto  trouble  and  he'd  been  unable  to  keep  his 
appointment.  He  requested  that  the  major  have 
Mr.  Gibbons  and  Mr.  O'Flaherty  located  and 
brought  home. 


118     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

This  was  done.  The  disappointed  correspond- 
ents blew  in  shortly  before  closing  time  and  confided 
to  me  their  suspicion  that  the  trouble  with  the  cap- 
tain's machine  had  not  been  magneto,  but  (the 
censor  cut  out  a  good  line  here). 

To-morrow  we  are  to  be  shown  the  main  British 
training  school  and  the  hospital  bases. 

Friday,  September  7.     With  the  British. 

We  left  the  chateau  at  nine  and  reached  the  train- 
ing camp  an  hour  later. 

We  saw  a  squad  of  ineligibles  drilling,  boys 
under  military  age  who  had  run  away  from  home 
to  get  into  the  Big  Game.  Their  parents  had  in- 
formed the  authorities  of  their  ineligibility,  and  the 
authorities  had  refused  to  enroll  them.  The  boys 
had  refused  to  go  back  home,  and  the  arrangement 
is  that  they  are  to  remain  here  and  drill  till  they 
are  old  enough  to  fight.  Some  of  them  are  as 
much  as  three  years  shy  of  the  limit. 

The  drill  is  made  as  entertaining  as  possible. 
The  instructor  uses  a  variation  of  our  "Simon  sa}rs : 
'Thumbs    up'."      "O'Grady"    sits    in    for    Simon. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     119 

For  example,  the  instructor  says :  "O'Grady  says : 
'Right  dress.'  Left  dress."  The  youth  who  "left 
dresses"  without  O'Grady's  say-so  is  sent  to  the 
awkward  squad  in  disgrace. 

Out  of  a  bunch  of  approximately  two  hundred 
only  two  went  through  the  drill  perfectly.  The 
other  one  hundred  and  ninety-eight  underestimated 
the  importance  of  O'Grady  and  sheepislily  stepped 
out  of  line.  The  two  perfectos  looked  as  pleased  as 
peacocks. 

We  saw  a  bayonet  drill  with  a  tutor  as  vivacious 
and  linguistically  original  as  a  football  coach,  and 
were  then  taken  to  the  bomb-throwing  school.  The 
tutor  here  was  as  deserving  of  sympathy  as  a  Bel- 
gian. A  bomb  explodes  five  seconds  after  you  press 
the  button.  Many  of  the  pupils  press  the  button, 
then  get  scared,  drop  the  bomb  and  run.  The  in- 
structor has  to  pick  up  the  bomb  and  throw  it  away 
before  it  explodes  and  messes  up  his  anatomy.  And 
there's  no  time  to  stop  and  figure  in  what  direction 
you're  going  to  throw. 

The  Maoris  were  our  next  entertainers.  The 
Maoris   are   colored   gemmcn   from   New   Zealand. 


120     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

They  were  being  taught  how  to  capture  a  trench. 
Before  they  left  their  own  dugout  they  sang  a  bat- 
tle hymn  that  would  make  an  American  dance  and 
scare  a  German  to  death.  They  went  through  their 
maneuvers  with  an  incredible  amount  of  pep  and 
acted  as  if  they  could  hardly  wait  to  get  into  real 
action  against  the  boche.  Personally,  I  would  have 
conscientious  objections  to  fighting  a  Maori. 

Then  we  were  shown  a  gas-mask  dress  rehearsal. 
A  British  gas  mask  has  a  sweet  scent,  like  a  hos- 
pital. You  can  live  in  one,  they  say,  for  twenty- 
four  hours,  no  matter  what  sort  of  poison  the  lovely 
Huns  are  spraying  at  you.  We  all  tried  them  on 
and  remarked  on  their  efficacy,  though  we  knew 
nothing  about  it. 

We  had  lunch  and  were  told  we  might  make  a 
tour  of  inspection  of  the  hospitals  in  which  the 
wounded  lay.  I  balked  at  this  and,  instead,  called 
on  a  Neenah,  Wisconsin,  doctor  from  whose  knee 
had  been  extracted  a  sizable  piece  of  shrapnel,  the 
gift  of  last  Sunday's  bomb  dropper.  This  doctor 
has  been  over  but  three  weeks,  and  the  ship  that 
brought  him  came  within  a  yard  of  stopping  a 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     121 

torpedo.     Neither  war  nor  Wisconsin  has  any  ter- 
rors left  for  him. 

To-morrow  we  are  to  be  taken  right  up  to  the 
front,  dressed  in  helmets,  gas  masks,  and  every- 
thing. 

Saturday,  September  8.     With  the  British. 

Two  machine  loads,  containing  us  and  our  hel- 
mets, masks,  and  lunch  baskets,  got  away  to  an 
early  start  and  headed  for  the  Back  of  the  Front. 
In  one  car  were  the  Captain  with  the  Monocle,  the 
Harvard  prof.,  and  the  American  philanthropist. 
The  baggage,  the  philanthropist's  secretary,  and  I 
occupied  the  other.  The  secretary  talked  inces- 
santly and  in  reverent  tones  of  his  master,  whom  he 
called  The  Doctor.  One  would  have  almost  be- 
lieved he  considered  me  violently  opposed  to  The 
Doctor  (which  I  wasn't,  till  later  in  the  day)  and 
was  trying  to  win  me  over  to  his  side  with  eulogistic 
oratory. 

The  first  half  of  our  journey  was  covered  at  the 
usual  terrifying  rate  of  speed.  The  last  half  was 
a  snail's  crawl  which  p;rcw  slower  and  slower  as  we 


122     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

neared  our  objective.  Countless  troops,  afoot  and 
in  motors,  hundreds  of  ammunition  and  supply 
trucks,  and  an  incredible  number  of  businesslike  and 
apparently  new  guns,  these  took  up  a  healthy  three- 
quarters  of  the  road  and,  despite  our  importance, 
didn't  hunch  to  let  us  pass. 

When  we  sounded  our  horns  to  warn  of  our  ap- 
proach, the  subalterns,  or  whatever  j^ou  call  them, 
would  look  round,  stand  at  attention  and  salute, 
first  the  Captain  with  the  Monocle,  and  then,  when 
our  car  came  up,  me.  Me  because  I  was  the  only 
one  in  the  second  machine  who  wore  a  British  officer's 
cap.  I  returned  about  three  salutes,  blushing  pain- 
fully, and  then  threw  my  cap  on  the  floor  of  the 
car  and  rode  exposed.  Saluting  is  a  wear  and  tear 
on  the  right  arm,  and  being  saluted  makes  you  feel 
slackerish  and  camouflagy,  when  you  don't  deserve 
it. 

We  attained  the  foot  of  the  observation  hill  round 
noon,  left  our  machines,  and  ate  our  picnic  lunch, 
consisting  of  one  kind  of  sandwiches  and  three  kinds 
of  wine.  Then  we  accomplished  the  long  climb, 
stopping  half-way  up  to  don  helmets  and  masks. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     123 

Our  guide  told  us  that  the  boche,  when  not  otherwise 
pleasantly  employed,  took  a  few  shots  at  where  we 
were  standing  to  test  his  long-distance  aim. 

I  wore  the  mask  as  long  as  I  could,  which  was 
about  half  an  hour.  It  was  unpleasantly  reminis- 
cent of  an  operation  I  once  had,  the  details  of  which 
I  would  set  down  here  if  I  had  time.  Without  it, 
I  found,  I  could  see  things  much  more  plainly. 
Through  strong  field  glasses  the  British  trenches 
were  discernible.  The  German  front  line  was  be- 
hind a  ridge,  two  hundred  yards  away — from  the 
British,  not  us — and  invisible.  No  drive  was  in 
progress,  but  there  was  the  steady  boom,  boom  of 
heavy  guns,  the  scary  siren,  with  a  bang  at  the 
end,  of  grenades,  and  an  occasional  solo  in  a  throaty 
barytone  which  our  captain  told  us  belonged  to  Mr. 
Trench  Mortar. 

The  firing  was  all  in  one  direction — toward  the 
northeast.  Fritz  was  not  replying,  probably  be- 
cause he  had  no  breath  to  waste  in  casual  repartee. 

Convinced  that  our  hill  was  a  zone  of  safety,  for 
this  afternoon  at  least,  I  wanted  to  stay  up  there 
and  look  and  listen  till  it  was  time  to  go  home. 


124     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

But  our  captain  had  arranged  a  trip  to  a  sniping 
school,  and  our  captain  would  rather  have  broken 
his  monocle  than  have  made  the  slightest  alteration 
in  the  program  for  the  day. 

To  the  sniping  school  we  went,  and  saw  the 
snipers  sniping  on  their  snipes.  It  was  just  like 
the  sniping  school  I  had  visited  at  the  American 
camp,  and  I  got  pretty  mad  at  our  captain  for 
dragging  us  away  from  a  sight  far  more  interest- 
ing. But  he  redeemed  himself  by  having  the  major 
in  charge  show  us  real,  honest-to-goodness  camou- 
flage, staged  by  an  expert. 

We  were  taken  to  a  point  two  hundred  yards  dis- 
tant from  a  trench  system. 

"Standing  up  in  front  of  one  of  those  trenches," 
said  the  major,  "there's  a  sergeant  in  costume. 
He's  in  plain  sight.     Now  you  find  him." 

Well,  we  couldn't  find  him,  and  we  gave  up. 

"Move,  Sergeant!"  shouted  the  major. 

The  sergeant  moved  and,  sure  enough,  there  he 
was ! 

"I  had  him  spotted  all  the  time,"  said  The  Doc- 
tor. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     125 

The  major  directed  the  sergeant  to  change  to  a 
costume  of  a  different  hue.  When  the  change  had 
been  made  we  were  required  to  turn  our  backs  till 
he  had  "hidden"  himself  again.  Again  he  was  "in 
plain  sight,"  and  again  we  had  to  give  up.  Again 
he  was  ordered  to  move,  and  we  saw  him,  this  time 
in  colors  diametrically  opposed  to  those  of  his  first 
garb. 

"I  had  him  spotted  all  the  time,"  said  The  Doc- 
tor. 

The  sergeant  went  through  his  entire  repertory 
of  tricks,  but  the  rest  must  not  be  reported. 

It  occurred  to  me  on  the  way  back  to  our  ma- 
chines that  some  football  coach  could  make  a  fish 
out  of  the  defensive  team  by  camouflaging  his  back 
field. 

Our  captain  and  the  Harvard  prof,  climbed  into 
the  front  car,  leaving  The  Doctor,  his  secretary, 
and  me  to  bring  up  the  rear.  The  sec.  sat  with  the 
driver ;  The  Doctor  and  I  in  the  back  seat. 

"How  long  have  you  been  over  here?"  inquired 
The  Doctor  at  length. 

I  told  him. 


126     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

"How  many  American  soldiers  are  there  in 
France?" 

I  told  him. 

After  an  impressive  pause,  he  said: 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  are  really — "  And 
he  increased  my  estimate  by  four  hundred  per  cent. 
"Of  course,"  he  continued,  "I  have  the  right  figures. 
They  were  furnished  me  by  the  Defense  League  be- 
fore I  left  home.  They  naturally  wouldn't  give 
them  to  a  writer  because  they  don't  want  them  pub- 
lished." 

"And  naturally,"  says  I,  "whenever  they  tell  a 
writer  anything  in  strict  confidence,  he  rushes  to 
the  nearest  Local  and  Long  Distance  Telephone 
Booth  and  gets  Wilhelmstrasse  on  the  wire." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  The  Doctor.  "But  a  writer 
might  think  it  was  his  duty  to  send  the  correct  in- 
formation to  his  paper." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  censorship?"  I  asked 
him. 

"There  are  ways  of  eluding  it." 

"And  do  you  think  all  writers  are  that  kind?" 

He  shrugged  a  fat  shoulder. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     12? 

"Not  all,  possibly  a  very  few.  But  one  never 
can  tell  the  right  kind  from  the  wrong." 

His  guard  was  down,  and  I  took  careful  aim: 

"Do  you  think  the  Defense  League  used  good 
judgment  in  entrusting  that  secret  to  you,  when 
you  spill  it  to  the  first  irresponsible  reporter  you 
happen  to  run  across?" 

If  I  hadn't  won  this  argument,  I  wouldn't  re- 
peat it. 

Not  until  we  reached  our  chateau  did  I  realize 
why  I  had  been  so  catty.    I'd  gone  without  my  tea. 

Sunday,  September  9.     Paris. 

Mr.  Gibbons  and  I  this  morning  bade  good-by  to 
our  genial  hosts  and  were  driven  to  the  station  at 
which  we  arrived  last  Wednesday.  On  the  Paris- 
bound  train  I  wondered  audibly  why  the  servants 
had  given  me  that  queer  look  before  we  left. 

"Did  you  tip  them  ?"  asked  Mr.  Gibbons. 

"Certainly !"  I  snapped. 

"I'll  bet  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Gibbons.  "You  prob- 
ably packed  your  own  suit-case." 

He  was  right. 


VI 

HOW  I  DIDN'T  DRIVE   MAJOR  BLANK'S 
CAR  TO  CAMP  SUCH-AND-SUCH 

Monday,  September  10.     Paris. 

The  American  major  who  owns  the  car  which  Mr. 
Kiley  drove  down  from  Le  Havre,  whither  it  had 
been  sent  by  the  man  who  bought  it  in  London  for 
the  American  major — well,  anyway,  this  American 
major,  he's  in  the  artillery  camp  at  Such-and-Such, 
and  he  wants  me  to  bring  it  down  there  for  him. 
I've  never  handled,  or,  rather,  footled  one  of  the 
little  birds,  but  it's  something  everybody  should 
learn,  like  French  and  auction  and  how  to  swim. 
Besides,  I  want  to  see  the  artillery  camp.  So  I'm 
accepting  the  commission  and  intend  to  get  busy 
to-morrow  morning. 

Tuesday,  September  11.     Paris. 

With  an  American  pass  and  an  order  for  the  car, 
I  taxied  to  the  United  States  army  garage,  in  the 
Quai  Debilly. 

128 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     129 

"Avez-vous  fixed  vous  with  passes?"  inquired  a 
friendly  inmate  of  the  garage. 

I  showed  him  my  American  card. 

"That  isn't  bien  suffisant,"  he  said.  "You'll  have 
to  get  a  pink  one  to  go  through  the  French  army 
zone." 

I  recalled  then  our  troubles  on  a  previous  auto- 
mobile trip  and  was  glad  he  had  spoken. 

"Where  do  I  go  for  that?"  I  inquired. 

"Go,"  said  he,  "to  the  Prefet  de  Ligne  du  Com- 
munications."    Or  something  like  that. 

"Ou  is  il?" 

"I  think  he's  in  the  Rue  Francois  Premier." 

"And  is  the  car  all  right?" 

"I  guess  so.    Nos  haven't  looked  at  it  yet." 

I  had  let  my  taxi  go,  and  twenty  minutes  were 
spent  in  getting  another.  It  was  another  hour  be- 
fore we  located  the  prefet. 

A  secretary  examined  my  passport  and  American 
pass  and  took  my  dossier: 

Name,  nationality,  birthplace,  age,  ancestry,  real 
purpose  in  coming  to  France.  Hair — black ;  fore- 
head —  high ;    eyes  —  brown ;    nose  —  prominent ; 


130     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

mouth — medium;  chin — round;  complexion — dark; 
height — six  one  and  three-quarters.    Sign  here. 

"Now,"  said  the  sec,  "monsieur  will  avez  to  come 
across  avec  a  photophie." 

"I'm  just  out,"  I  said.  "I'd  no  idea  I'd  be  so 
popular." 

"Nos  can  issue  no  passes  sans  a  photophie,"  says 
he,  so  out  I  went  in  search  of  a  rapid-fire  studio. 

The  driver  pulled  up  in  front  of  a  gallery  on  the 
Rue  de  la  Paix,  where  the  artist  promised  to  have 
six  copies  of  my  map  printed  by  midi. 

To  kill  time  I  rode  back  to  Billy's  rue. 

"The  car's  on  the  blink,"  said  my  friend  in 
French.  "The  connecting  rod  is  lache  and  some 
bearings  are  burned  out.  Besides,  vous  would  be 
a  rummy  to  partir  on  these  tires." 

"Comme  beaucoup  new  ones  do  je  need?" 

"Just  plain  quatre,"  says  he. 

"Well,"  says  I,  "put  them  on  and  get  busy  avec 
the  reparations.    I  want  to  start  away  before  dark." 

"Ah,  oui,"  says  he,  "but  we  have  no  tires  and 
we  have  no  tools  to  make  the  reparations  avec." 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     131 

"Can't  you  get  them?" 

"Vous  devoir  get  them  yourself." 

"Ou?" 

"At  the  branch  factory  of  the ,"  and  he  said 

the  name  of  the  car  right  out  loud. 

"Ou  est  le  branch  factory?" 

"H  est  in  un  suburb — Le  Vallois-Perret.  The 
address  is  6163  Rue  Corneille." 

"What  tools  are  required?" 

"Une  roue-tirer  et  un  offset  clef  a,  vis." 

Which  means  a  wheel  puller  and  an  offset  wrench. 

"And  can  je  aussi  tires  get  there?" 

"Ah,  oui." 

It  was  noon,  and  my  trusting  driver  and  I  re- 
turned to  the  studio  on  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  The 
pictures  weren't  fini.     They  never  are. 

"Take  me  to  Maxim's,"  says  I,  "and  we'll  call  it 
a  half  day." 

After  lunch  I  walked  back  to  the  studio.  The 
pictures  were  not  fini,  but  would  monsieur  rester? 
Monsieur  would.  Monsieur  rested  till  fourteen 
o'clock,  got  six  photophies  that  had  him  looking 


132     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

more  than  ever  like  a  German  spy,  and  taxied  back 
to  the  Rue  Francois  Premier.  The  prefet's  joint 
was  closed. 

I  asked  the  driver  how  far  it  was  out  to  Le  Vallois- 
Perret. 

"Come  on,"  he  said,  and  I  climbed  in,  but  "come 
on,"  in  French,  means  "I  don't  get  you,"  so  I  had 
to  repeat  the  directions  four  or  five  times. 

"Ah,  oui,"  he  said  at  last.  "Le  Vallois-Perret. 
Quatorze  kilomet's." 

"What  is  that  in  American  money?" 

"Come  on,"  said  the  driver. 

"Hotel  Con-tin-en-tal,"  I  said. 

I'll  tackle  'em  afresh  to-morrow  morning. 

Wednesday,  September  12.     Paris. 

The  prefet's  secretary  approved  my  picture  and 
gave  me  a  beautiful  salmon-colored  pass.  It  is  good 
for  five  days,  which  is  plenty,  as  I  will  come  back 
on  the  train. 

At  the  city  gates,  en  route  to  Le  Vallois-Perret, 
my  taxi  and  I  were  stopped  and  our  essence  meas- 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     133 

urcd.  If  we  brought  back  more  than  we  took  out, 
we  would  have  to  pay  taxes  on  the  difference. 

Quatorze  kilomet's  was  a  very  conservative  esti- 
mate of  the  distance,  and  it  was  nearly  eleven  when 
we  reached  Cornelia's  rue  and  the  branch  factory. 

An  American  heard  my  plea  for  four  new  tires, 
an  offset  wrench,  and  a  wheel  puller. 

"It  can't  be  done,"  he  said.  "All  we  do  is  own 
this  place.  But  the  French  Government  has  taken 
it  over  and  runs  it." 

"But  this  is  a  United  States  army  car,"  I  said, 
"and  we're  supposed  to  be  allies  of  the  French." 

"Without  special  permission,"  said  he,  "you 
stand  as  much  chance  as  if  you  were  the  Crown 
Prince." 

"Where  can  I  get  special  permission?" 

"Your  best  bet  is  to  see  Captain  Vandervelde.  If 
anybody  can  fix  it,  he's  the  boy.  You'll  find  him  in 
the  Passage  de  Haynau,  Rue  Croix  Nivert." 

"What  number?" 

"There  is  no  number." 

I  thanked  him,  or  perhaps  I  forgot  to,  and  re- 
turned to  my  taxi. 


134     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

"Passage  de  Haynau  in  Rue  Croix  Nivert,"  I 
said. 

"Q'numero?" 

"There  ain't  none." 

"Come  on,"  demanded  the  driver. 

"I  told  you  there  was  no  number.  We'll  just 
have  to  keep  looking  till  we  find  it." 

We  convinced  the  guardian  of  the  gate  that  we 
weren't  trying  to  cheat  on  gasoline,  and  rolled  into 
Rue  Croix  Nivert  about  thirteen  o'clock.  My 
chauffeur  sat  nonchalantly  in  his  accustomed  seat 
while  I  made  a  house-to-house  canvass  of  Haynau's 
Passage.  The  last  house  was  the  right  one.  I 
knew  it  in  an  instant,  for  when  I  entered  the  corri- 
dor a  French  sentry  popped  up  and  placed  the  end 
of  his  bayonet  within  an  inch  of  Nose-prominent. 

"Captain  Vandervelde,"  said  I,  making  a  short 
strategical  retreat. 

"Come  on,"  said  Frenchy  without  lowering  his 
sticker. 

A  password  was  what  he  wanted,  and  Mr.  Poin- 
care  had  forgotten  to  call  me  up  and  give  me  the 
correct  one  for  the  day.     I  produced  a  two-franc 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     135 

piece  and  held  it  out.  The  sentry  withdrew  his 
weapon,  accepted  the  coin,  and  allowed  me  to  pass. 

"The  word,"  I  thought  to  myself,  "must  be  Lib- 
erte,  Egalite,  Fraternite." 

Captain  Vandervelde  was  in  and  made  me  wait 
only  half  an  heure,  the  while  I  thought  more  than 
once  of  yon  taxi.  Finally  I  was  summoned  to  the 
inner  office. 

"What  can  je  faire  pour  vous?"  he  inquired. 

I  told  him  I  wanted  an  order  on  the branch 

factory  for  some  tools  and  four  new  tires. 

"Rien  fairing  on  the  tires,"  he  said. 

"Pourquoi  ?"  I  asked  him. 

"Orders  pour  tires  must  come  from  the  Maison 
de  la  Guerre." 

"Can  you  fix  me  for  the  tools  ?" 

"Ah,  oui.    What  tools  voulez-vous  ?" 

"Une  roue-tirer  et  un  offset  clef  a  vis." 

"Votre  papers,  s'il  vous  plait." 

I  handed  him  passport,  American  pass,  and  sal- 
mon-pink card.  He  glanced  them  over,  then  began 
rummaging  in  a  drawer.  I  knew  what  was  coming 
— another  dossier. 


136     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

"Avez-vous  une  photophie?"  lie  asked. 

"All,  oui,"  says  I,  and  slipped  him  one  of  the  re- 
maining five. 

He  kept  the  dossier  and  photophie  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  himself  and  progeny.  He  gave  me  only  a 
mauve  card  which  said  I  was  entitled  to  one  wheel 
puller  and  one  left-handed  offset  monkey  wrench. 

I  told  my  driver  we  had  to  hurry  right  back  to 
Le  Vallois-Perret.    He  looked  crestfallen. 

"Je  have  had  no  dejeuner,"  he  said. 

"Neither  have  je,"  I  said,  and  climbed  in. 

Thursday,  September  13.     Paris. 

Up  early  and  to  the  garage.  Delivered  the  tools. 
"Vous  had  better  buy  a  tire  pump,"  said  my  ad- 
viser. 

"Je  suppose,"  said  I,  "that  I'll  have  to  get  an 
order  for  one  from  Papa  Joffre." 

"No,"  he  said.  "That's  une  chose  vous  can  buy 
sans  an  order." 

"Voulez-vous  get  to  work  on  the  car  right  away  ?" 

"Ah,  oui,"  says  he. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     137 

I  asked  my  chauffeur  to  take  me  to  a  maison  du 
tire  pumps.  We  found  one  on  the  Champs  Elysees. 
Other  things  for  sale  in  the  store  were  watches  and 
perfumery.  I  proceeded  thence  to  French  General 
Headquarters. 

The  gentleman  authorized  to  sign  orders  for 
tires  received  me  cordially  and  spoke  English. 

"Certainly,"  he  said  in  answer  to  my  request,  "if 
the  car  is  for  an  American  officer.  And  what  is 
the  license  number?" 

I  had  to  confess  I  didn't  know. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "you  go  to  the  garage  and  find 
out.    Then  come  back  and  I'll  give  you  the  order." 

I  went  to  the  garage  to  find  out.  There  was  no 
license. 

"Ou  can  je  get  one?"  I  asked  my  friend. 

He  gave  me  the  address  of  the  license  bureau,  on 
Rue  Oskaloosa  or  something.  The  driver  knew 
where  it  was. 

Monsieur  du  License  surprised  me  by  asking  for 
a  picture  and  taking  my  description,  which  I  could 
almost  have  rhymed  by  this  time — 


138     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

Hair  jet  black,  but  a  paucity  of  it; 

Forehead  high  as  the  Eiffel  tower; 
Prominent  nose,  but  it's  mine;  I  love  it; 

Eyes  the  brown  of  the  pansy  flower; 
Medium  mouth,  not  the  best  for  kisses; 

Chin  as  round  as  a  billiard  ball; 
Dark  complected — Oh,  Mister,  this  is 

Me,  and  Fm  better  than  six  feet  tall. 

"What  est  the  numero  of  the  engine  ?" 

"Four  hundred  and  fifty-six  thousand  three  hun- 
dred and  four,"  I  replied  sans  batting  an  eyelash. 

He  took  it  down  and  disappeared  into  an  adjoin- 
ing room.  In  a  little  while  he  returned  with  a 
license  plate — second-hand  to  match  the  car. 

I  carried  it  along  to  display  to  the  man  at  G.  H. 
Q.,  as  it  is  technically  known. 

"Ou  can  I  get  the  tires?"  I  asked. 

"Anywhere,  with  that  order,"  he  said. 

So  I  told  the  driver  to  go  anywhere,  and  he  mis- 
understood and  took  me  everywhere.  The  tire 
maison  he  chose  was  .as  far  away  as  he  could  drive 
without  crossing  the  Swiss  border. 

"Now  back  to  the  United  States  garage,"  said  I, 
and  we  arrived  just  as  they  were  closing. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     139 

My  friend  told  me  the  car  had  been  "taken  down." 
When  I  saw  it  I  was  convinced  that  the  "taking 
down"  had  been  accomplished  with  shrapnel. 

"How  many  months  will  it  take  to  put  it  together 
again?"  I  asked. 

"Tres  few  minutes,"  said  the  mechanic.  "It  will 
be  all  finished  to-morrow  midi." 

"It  looks  all  finished  now." 

"Avez-vous  votre  license?"  he  inquired. 

I  displayed  it  triumphantly. 

"Ah,  oui,"  he  said.  "But  that's  just  the  license 
for  the  car.  Vous  must  aussi  have  a  driver's 
license." 

"Bonne  nuit !"  I  yelped.    "And  what  for?" 

"C'est  la  loi,"  said  he.  "Everybody  who  drives 
in  France  must  have  one." 

"How  do  you  get  it?" 

"You'll  have  to  go  to  the  Chef  de  Traffic  Police 
and  pass  the  examination." 

"How  long  does  it  take?" 

"Tres  brief.    Not  more  than  une  heure." 

"Well,  will  you  guarantee  to  have  the  car  all 
ready  when  I  come  for  it  at  noon  to-morrow?" 


140     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

"Je  promise,"  he  said,  and  I  drove  back  to  the 
hotel. 

Oh,  Major,  wait  till  you  see  that  taxi  bill! 

Friday,  September  11^.     Paris. 

The  traffic  chief  said  that  before  he  could  ex- 
amine me  for  a  license  I  must  show  him  my  registra- 
tion card  from  a  regular  police  commissioner.  I  had 
been  told  I  ought  to  have  one  of  those  darn  things, 
but  had  passed  it  up.  Now  I  was  face  to  face  with 
the  necessity  of  acquiring  the  card  and  doing  it 
quick.  The  nearest  station  was  only  a  few  blocks 
away.  I  found  it  jam-packed  with  people  who 
looked  as  if  they  all  worked  in  East  St.  Louis.  I 
flagged  an  attendant. 

"I  want  to  register,"  I  told  him. 

"You'll  be  called  when  it's  your  turn,"  he  said, 
and  gave  me  a  number.     It  was  89,041. 

"How  long  will  I  have  to  wait?" 

He  pondered. 

"I  think  they're  now  in  the  twenty-thousands," 
he  said. 

Suddenly  I  bethought  me  of  a  document  in  my 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE      141 

pocket,  a  letter  from  the  boss  of  the  Maison  de  la 
Presse.     I  flashed  it  on  him. 

"Ah-h-h!"  he  sighed,  and  led  me  through  the 
mob  to  the  inner  shrine. 

In  ten  minutes  I  had  my  card.  The  commissioner 
didn't  even  want  a  picture,  or  nothin'.  I  plunged 
through  the  gang  again  and  was  stared  at  envi- 
ously. Some  of  the  poor  blokes  have  undoubtedly 
been  waiting  there  since  the  Kaiser  was  forced  into 
the  war. 

Again  I  appeared  before  the  traffic  chief.  "Of 
course,"  he  said,  "I  will  have  to  examine  your 
papers.     And  avez-vous  une  photophie?" 

I  came  through. 

"Now,"  I  said,  "we're  fifty-fifty.  You  have  one 
and  I  have  one." 

But  he  wasn't  listening.  He  was  rummaging  for 
the  deadly  dossier. 

"This,"  he  said,  when  he  had  found  one,  "will 
have  to  be  filled  out." 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  "I  think  I  recall  filling  one  out 
last  time  I  was  in  France." 

"This  car  belongs  to  an  American  army  officer?" 


142     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

"Ah,  oui." 

"What  does  he  intend  to  do  with  the  car?" 

The  temptation  was  strong  to  say  he  intended 
using  it  to  tour  the  trenches.  But  it  was  no  time  to 
trifle. 

"He  expects  to  ride  round  the  camp  in  it,  sir. 
He  is  in  one  of  the  high  commands  and  has  to  do  a 
lot  of  inspecting." 

"Do  you  know  the  traffic  laws  of  Paris?" 

"Ah,  oui." 

He  didn't  ask  me  what  they  were.  But  I  could 
have  told  him.  Any  part  of  the  street  you  like, 
with  a  minimum  speed  limit  of  forty  miles  on  the 
straightaway  and  sixty-five  miles  round  the  corners. 

"You  are  going  to  take  the  car  right  out  of 
Paris?" 

"Ah,  oui." 

"That's  all,"  he  said,  and  handed  me  a  driver's 
license,  horizon  blue  with  saffron  stripes. 

I  thanked  him  and  bowed  myself  out  of  the 
place. 

"From  now  on,"  I  thought,  "it's  clear  sailing." 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     143 

The  car  was  ready.  I  had  in  my  mind's  eye  a 
near-by  unfrequented  street,  where  I  was  going  to 
master  the  driving  of  it  in  ten  minutes.  Then  I  was 
going  to  shoot  her  up  to  the  hotel,  get  my  baggage 
and  leave  town. 

"How  about  gas  and  oil?"  I  inquired. 

"Oil,  oui,  but  essence,  no,"  said  the  mechanic. 

"Well,  throw  in  ten  gallons,"  said  I. 

"Ah,  but  has  monsieur  an  essence  ticket?" 

Monsieur  never  heard  of  it. 

"Ah,  then,  monsieur  can  get  no  essence." 

"Well  for — "  and  monsieur  used  harsh  words. 

"Monsieur  can  easily  obtain  a  ticket,"  said  the 
guy  when  things  had  quieted  down.  "Monsieur's 
military  passes  will  be  suffisant." 

"Where  at?" 

"At  the  Maison  du  Controle  de  l'Essence." 

"And  that  is—?" 

"Vingt  sept,  Rue  Yaki  Hula  Hickey  Dula." 

"Is  that  as  far  away  as  it  sounds  ?" 

"Monsieur  can  go  there  and  be  back  in  une 
heure." 


1U     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

Monsieur  crawled  wearily  into  a  taxi  and  started 
for  Honolulu.  The  military  passes  did  prove  suffi- 
sant,  and  there  was  no  trouble  getting  a  fifty-gal- 
lon book  at  two  francs  per  gal. 

"I'll  save  time  now,"  I  thought.  "I'll  pick  up 
my  baggage  on  the  way  back  to  the  garage." 

So  I  told  my  driver  to  stop  at  the  hotel.  A  tele- 
gram was  waiting  there  for  me. 

"Hold  car  in  Paris,"  it  said.  "Camp  may  be 
moved  any  day." 

This  blow  fell  at  fourteen  o'clock  this  afternoon. 
By  half-past  fifteen  I  had  called  up  every  steamship 
office  and  learned  that  the  next  boat  for  America 
would  leave  from  England  next  Wednesday  night. 
I  am  going  to  be  aboard. 

And  now  I  have  for  sale,  at  auction : 

One  pass  through  the  French  war  zone. 
One  pass  good  in  the  American  camp. 
One  driver's  license. 
One  book  of  essence  tickets. 
One  road  map. 
One  registration  card. 
I  think  I  will  leave  the  four  tires  and  the  offset 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     145 

clef  a  vis  and  the  wheel  puller  with  the  car.  Also 
the  car's  license.  The  major  is  perfectly  trust- 
worthy. I  only  hope  he  doesn't  get  killed  before  my 
expense  account  reaches  him. 


VII 

I  START  HOME,  WITH  A  STOP-OVER 
AT  LONDON 

Saturday,  September  15.     Paris. 

The  gentleman  at  the  American  Embassy,  which 
I  visited  late  yesterday  afternoon,  spake  truth 
when  he  said  it  was  some  job  to  get  away  from 
this  place. 

"If  you  want  to  leave  on  Sunday,"  quoth  he, 
"you'll  have  to  rise  early  Saturday  and  keep  going 
all  day.  See  our  consul  first  thing  in  the  morning, 
and  he'll  tell  you  all  you  have  to  do." 

So  I  saw  our  consul  first  thing  this  morning. 
In  fact,  I  beat  him  to  his  office.  When  he  came  in 
he  was  cordial  and  unsuspicious,  rare  qualities  in  a 
consul.  He  stamped  my  passport  "Bon  pour  se 
rendre  en  Amerique  par  Grande  Bretagne"  and  a 
great  deal  more. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "you'll  have  to  be  viseed  by  the 
146 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     147 

prefet  de  police  and  approved  by  the  British  Mili- 
tary Control.  I  don't  know  in  what  order.  They 
change  it  every  two  or  three  days  to  keep  you  guess- 
ing." 

I  chose  the  British  Control  first  and,  of  course, 
was  wrong.     But  it  took  an  hour  to  find  this  out. 

There  was  a  big  crowd  of  us,  and  we  were  all 
given  numbers,  as  in  a  barber  shop  of  a  Saturday 
night.  But  the  resemblance  to  the  barber  shop 
ceased  with  the  giving,  for  they  called  us  regardless 
of  number.  A  guinea  sitting  next  to  me  was  42  and 
I  was  18.  He  preceded  me  into  the  sanctum.  And 
I  got  there  ahead  of  No.  12,  a  British  matron. 

My  session  was  brief. 

"The  police  vise  must  come  first,"  said  the  officer 
in  charge. 

Monsieur  le  Prefet  has  his  office  conveniently 
located  about  eight  miles  away  from  the  Control, 
over  the  river.  And  he's  on  the  fourth  floor  of  a 
building  constructed  before  the  invention  of  the 
elevator.  From  behind  an  untrimmcd  hedge  of 
black  whiskers  he  questioned  me  as  to  my  forebears, 
musical  tastes  and  baseball  preferences.     Then  he 


148     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

retired  into  chambers  and  presently  issued  forth 
with  my  passport,  on  which  his  stamp  had  been 
added  to  the  beautiful  collection  already  there.  It 
says  I'm  Bon  for  a  trip  to  Amerique  par  Angle- 
terre,  so  I  don't  know  whether  I'm  to  go  that  way 
or  through  Grande  Bretagne. 

Thence  back  to  Rue  Napoleon  Lajoie,  and  an- 
other long  wait. 

"Yes,"  said  the  officer  when  my  turn  came  again, 
"the  vise  is  all  right,  but  where  is  your  steamship 
ticket?  You'll  have  to  show  that  before  we  can 
pass  you." 

In  order  to  show  it  I  had  to  go  and  buy  it,  and  in 
order  to  buy  it  I  had  to  scare  up  some  money,  which 
is  no  mere  child's  play  in  Gay  Paree  these  days.  I 
called  on  four  people  before  I  found  one  who  was 
touchable.  With  what  he  grudgingly  forked  over 
I  hastened  to  the  booking  office  and  felt  at  home 
there,  it  being  on  Rue  Scribe.  There  was  a  cus- 
tomer ahead  of  me — our  president's  youngest  son- 
in-law. 

"Do  you  know  who  that  was?"  said  the  agent 
excitedly  when  the  young  man  had  departed. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     149 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  "but  we  don't  speak  to  each 
other." 

"Now,"  said  the  agent,  "I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to 
ask  3'ou  a  few  questions.  It's  annoying,  I  know, 
but  it's  the  war-time  rule." 

"Shoot,"  I  told  him.  "I'm  thoroughly  used  to 
being  annoyed." 

He  ran  through  the  familiar  list  and  saved  a  new 
one  for  the  wind-up. 

"Why  are  you  going  to  America?" 

I  could  have  spent  an  entire  week  replying  to 
that,  but  even  minutes  were  precious. 

"Because  it's  where  I  live,"  proved  satisfactory. 

He  apologized  again  for  having  to  propound  the 
queries,  which  shows  he  must  be  new  on  the  job. 
The  rest  of  them  don't  care  whether  you  like  it  or 
not.  I  signed  six  or  seven  pledges,  gave  over  the 
bulk  of  my  borrowed  fortune,  and  set  out  again 
with  my  ticket  for  the  Rue  Jacques  Johnson.  I  got 
there  just  in  time,  for  they  close  early  on  Saturday. 
Other  days  the  poor  devils  have  to  work  right 
through  from  ten  to  four. 

The  officer  also  wanted  to  know  why  I  was  going 


150     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

to  America.  And  he  asked  me  at  what  hotel  I 
would  stop  in  London.  I  told  him  I'd  never  been 
there  and  knew  nothing  about  the  hotels. 

"You  must  make  a  choice,"  he  said.  "We  have  to 
know  your  address." 

"Is  there  one  called  the  Savoy?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  let's  say  the  Savoy." 

"All  right.  You're  to  stay  there,  then,  while 
you're  in  London,  and  you're  to  leave  England  on 
tliis  ship  Wednesday  night.  Otherwise  you  may 
have  trouble." 

I'll  be  surprised  if  I  don't  anyhow. 

He  decorated  my  passport  with  a  heliotrope  in- 
scription, naming  the  port  from  which  I'm  to  de- 
part from  France,  the  hotel  in  London,  and  my 
good  ship,  and  sent  me  into  the  next  room,  where  a 
vice-consul  confirmed  the  military  vise  and  relieved 
me  of  two  francs. 

The  train  leaves  at  seven  to-morrow  morning,  and 
between  now  and  then  I  have  only  to  pack  and  to 
settle  with  the  hotel.  The  former  chore  will  be  easy, 
for  I  possess  just  half  as  much  personal  property 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     151 

as  when  I  came.     Parisian  laundries  have  comman- 
deered the  rest. 

Monday,  September  17.     London. 

With  tear-dimmed  eyes,  I  said  farewell  to  Paris 
yesterday  morning  at  the  unearthly  hour  of  seven. 
There  was  not  even  a  gendarme  on  hand  to  see  me 
off. 

The  trip  from  Paris  to  England  is  arranged  with 
the  customary  French  passion  for  convenience. 
They  get  you  out  of  bed  at  five  to  catch  the  train, 
which  arrives  in  the  port  at  noon.  The  Channel 
boat  leaves  port  at  ten  o'clock  at  night,  giving  you 
ten  solid  hours  in  winch  to  think.  Not  ten  either, 
for  the  last  two  are  consumed  in  waiting  for  your 
turn  to  be  examined  by  the  customs  and  viseed  by 
the  Authorities  du  Exit. 

Customs  examination  in  this  case  is  a  pure  waste 
of  time.  The  gentleman  only  wants  to  know 
whether  3-ou  are  trying  to  smuggle  any  gold  money 
out  of  France.  I'd  like  to  see  the  departing  guest 
who  has  any  kind  of  money  left  to  smuggle. 

The  Authorities  du  Exit  are  seven  in  number. 


152     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

They  sit  round  a  table,  and  you  pass  from  one  to 
the  other  until  something  has  been  done  to  you  by 
each.  One  feels  your  pulse,  another  looks  at  your 
tongue,  a  third  reads  your  passport  right  side  up, 
a  fourth  reads  it  upside  down,  a  fifth  compares  you 
with  your  photograph,  a  sixth  inspects  your  vises 
for  physical  defects,  and  the  seventh  tries  to  throw 
a  scare  into  you. 

I  got  by  the  first  six  easily.  No.  7  read  both 
sides  of  the  passport  and  then  asked  by  whom  I  was 
employed.     I  told  him. 

"Where  are  your  credentials?"  he  demanded. 

"What  do  you  mean,  credentials?" 

"You  must  have  a  letter  from  the  magazine,  show- 
ing that  it  employs  you." 

"You're  mistaken.     I  have  no  such  letter." 

He  looked  very  cross.  But  there  were  others  left 
to  scare,  so  he  couldn't  waste  much  time  on  me. 

"I'll  pass  you,"  he  said,  "but  if  you  come  back 
to  France  again,  you  can't  leave." 

He  and  I  should  both  worry. 

But  it  does  seem  pathetic  that  the  written  and 
stamped  approval,  in  all  colors  of  the  rainbow,  of 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     153 

the  Paris  chief  of  police,  the  American  consul,  the 
British  Military  Control,  the  British  consul,  the 
French  consul  in  New  York,  and  nearly  everybody 
else  in  the  world,  including  our  own  Secretary  of 
State,  sufficeth  not  to  convince  a  minor-league  offi- 
cial that  an  innocent  native  of  Niles,  Michigan,  isn't 
related  by  marriage  to  the  Hohenzollerns. 

On  the  dark  deck  of  our  Channel  boat  I  had  a 
'strawnary  experience.  A  British  colonel  to  whom 
I  had  not  been  introduced  spoke  to  me.  He  wanted 
a  light  from  my  cigarette.  And  when  I  had  given 
it  to  him  he  didn't  move  away,  but  stayed  right 
there  and  kept  on  talking. 

"This  is  my  first  leave,"  he  said  (but  in  his  own 
tongue),  "since  last  March.  Last  year  we  were  let 
off  ten  days  every  three  months.  Now  we  get 
twenty  days  a  year." 

"In  1918,"  said  I,  for  something  to  say,  "you'll 
probably  have  no  vacation  at  all." 

"In  1918,"  he  replied  confidently,  "I  believe  we'll 
get  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  days." 

We  settled  the  war  in  about  half  an  hour.  Then 
he  asked  me  to  join  him  in  a  Scotch  and  soda. 


154     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

I  was  too  gentlemanly  to  refuse.  The  bar,  we  ascer- 
tained, was  closed.  But  we  might  find  something 
in  the  dining-room.  We  did,  but  to  make  it  legal 
we  had  to  order  biscuits,  alias  crackers,  with  the 
beverage.  We  didn't  have  to  eat  them,  though. 
They  looked  to  be  in  their  dotage,  like  the  perma- 
nent sandwiches  which  serve  a  similar  purpose  in 
certain  blue-law  cities  of  Les  Etats  Unis. 

We  settled  the  war  all  over  again,  and  retired,  the 
colonel  politely  expressing  the  hope  that  we  would 
meet  for  breakfast. 

The  hope  was  not  realized.  I  was  through  and 
out  on  deck  by  the  time  we  docked  at  the  British 
port,  which  was  about  six  o'clock  this  morning. 

No  one  was  permitted  to  leave  the  ship  till  the 
customs  officials  and  alien  officers  reported  for  duty, 
two  hours  later.  Then  we  were  unloaded  and  herded 
into  a  waiting-room,  where  an  usher  seated  us.  An- 
other usher  picked  us  out,  four  at  a  time,  for  ex- 
amination, using  a  system  of  arbitrary  selective 
draft.  Mine  was  a  mixed  quartet,  three  gents  and 
a  female. 

An  officer  looked  at  our  passports  and  recorded 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE      155 

details  of  them  in  a  large  book.  Another  officer  ran 
the  gamut  of  queries.  And  here  I  got  into  a  little 
mess  by  telling  the  truth.  When  he  asked  me  what 
countries  I  had  visited,  I  told  him  France  and 
added  "Oh,  yes,  and  for  one  day  Belgium."  He 
marked  this  fact  on  a  slip  of  paper  and  sent  me  to 
the  next  room.  The  slip  of  paper  was  there  ahead 
of  me  and  I  was  once  more  a  suspect. 

The  young  lady  of  our  quartet,  a  French  girl, 
was  getting  hers,  and  there  was  nothing  for  me  to 
do  but  listen.  She  had  a  letter  from  her  mother  to 
a  friend  in  England.  The  mother,  it  seems,  had  ex- 
pected to  come  along,  but  had  decided  to  wait  three 
weeks,  "till  the  submarine  warfare  is  over."  The 
officers  were  very  curious  to  know  where  the  mother 
had  picked  up  that  interesting  dope.  The  young 
lady  couldn't  tell  them.  Well,  she  would  not  be 
permitted  to  leave  town  till  an  investigation  had 
been  made.  She  was  led  back  into  the  waiting- 
room  and  may  be  there  yet  for  all  I  can  say. 

It  was  my  turn. 

"Are  you  an  American?" 

"Yes,  sir." 


156     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

"How  long  ago  were  you  in  Belgium?" 

"About  ten  days  ago." 

"You  told  our  officer  outside  that  you  had  been 
in  Paris  five  weeks." 

"I  told  him  Paris  had  been  my  headquarters  and 
I'd  made  frequent  trips  in  and  out." 

"How  did  you  get  to  Belgium  ?" 

"In  an  automobile." 

"An  automobile!" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What  were  you  doing?" 

"I  was  being  the  guest  of  your  army." 

A  great  light  dawned  upon  them. 

"Oh !"  said  one,  smiling.  "He  means  he  was  be- 
hind our  lines,  not  theirs." 

"I  should  hope  so,"  said  I. 

"We're  sorry  to  have  misunderstood,  sir,"  said 
the  other,  and  I  was  escorted  into  the  baggage- 
room.  There  my  sordid  belongings  were  perfunc- 
torily examined,  the  official  not  even  troubling  to 
open  my  typewriter  case  nor  a  large  ungainly  pack- 
age containing  a  toy  for  certain  parties  back  home. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  the  examinations  were 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     157 

all  over  and  we  entrained  for  this  town.  I  got  off 
at  Waterloo  and  asked  a  taxi  to  take  me  to  the 
Savoy.  It  did  and  it  drove  on  the  left  side  of  all 
the  streets  en  route.   I'm  still  quaking. 

Tuesday,  September  18.     London. 

This  morning  I  had  my  first  experience  with  an 
English  telephone.  I  asked  the  hotel's  operator  to 
get  me  the  office  of  Mr.  O'Flaherty,  the  American 
correspondent  I  had  met  at  the  British  front.  In  a 
few  moments  she  rang  back. 

"Are  you  there?"  she  said,  that  being  London  for 
"Hello." 

"Here's  your  number,  then.    Carry  on,"  she  said. 

But  carrying  on  was  not  so  easy.  There  is  a 
steel  spring  on  the  combination  transmitter-receiver 
which  you  must  hold  down  while  you  talk.  I  kept 
forgetting  it.  Also  I  kept  being  electrically 
shocked.  But  in  the  course  of  half  an  hour,  with 
the  operator's  assistance,  I  managed  to  convey  to 
the  gentleman  an  invitation  to  call. 

He  came,  and  we  started  for  the  Bow  Street  police 
station,  where  every  visitor  has  to  register  within 


158     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

twenty-four  hours  of  his  arrival.  On  the  way  we 
met  Lew  Payne,  the  actor,  and  Gene  Corri,  racing 
man  and  box-fight  referee.  Gene  has  friends  among 
the  bobbies,  and  I  was  put  through  in  record  time. 
They  told  me  I'd  have  to  go  to  the  American  consul 
for  a  vise  and  then  come  back  for  a  second  regis- 
tration with  the  police.  Mr.  O'Flaherty  opined  that 
these  jobs  should  be  attended  to  at  once,  as  my  boat 
train  was  supposed  to  leave  at  nine  to-morrow  morn- 
ing.    Mr.  Payne  had  a  better  idea. 

"Let's  telephone  the  steamship  office,"  he  said, 
"and  find  out  whether  your  ship  is  really  going  to 
sail  on  schedule.     They  usually  don't  these  days." 

Mr.  O'Flaherty  did  the  telephoning,  and,  sure 
enough,  the  blamed  thing's  been  postponed  till  Sat- 
urday night. 

They  asked  me  what  I  wanted  to  do  next,  and  I 
said  I'd  like  to  pay  my  respects  to  George  and 
Mary.  But  I  hadn't  let  them  know  I  was  coming 
and  they're  both  out  of  town. 

We  went  to  Murray's  (pronounced  Mowrey's) 
Club  for  lunch,  though  no  one  in  the  party  was  a 
member  and  you  have  to  sign  checks  to  get  any- 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     159 

thing.  Unlike  most  clubs,  however,  you  pay  cash 
simultaneously  with  signing  the  check,  so  we  weren't 
cheating.  I  signed  "Charles  Chaplin"  to  one  check 
and  it  went  unchallenged. 

Gene's  two  sons  are  in  the  British  army,  and  the 
conversation  was  confined  to  them.  I  was  told  they 
were  the  best  two  sons  a  man  ever  had,  but  I  knew 
better. 

Murray's  Club's  orchestra  is  jazz  and  it  gave 
Mr.  O'Flaherty  and  me  an  acute  attack  of  home- 
sickness. 

From  there  we  rode  to  the  National  Sporting 
Club,  of  which  Mr.  Corri  is  king.  He  asked  me  to 
put  on  the  gloves  with  him,  but  I'm  not  one  of  the 
kind  that  picks  on  people  five  or  six  times  my  age. 

On  Mr.  Payne's  advice,  Mr.  O'Flaherty  and  I 
purchased  seats  for  a  show  called  Seven  Day's 
Leave,  and  that's  where  we've  been  to-night,  we  and 
another  scribe,  Mr.  Miller  of  Dowagiac,  Michigan, 
which,  as  every  one  knows,  is  a  suburb  of  Niles. 

The  show  is  a  melodrama  with  so  many  plots  that 
the  author  forgot  to  unravel  two  or  three  hundred 
of  them.     Of  the  fifteen  characters,  one  is  the  hero 


160     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

and  the  rest  are  German  spies,  male  and  female. 
The  hero  is  a  British  officer.  Everybody  wanted 
to  kill  him,  and  so  far  as  I  could  see  there  was  noth- 
ing to  prevent.  But  he  was  still  alive  when  the 
final  curtain  fell.  The  actors  made  all  their  speeches 
directly  to  the  audience,  and  many  of  them  (the 
speeches)  were  in  the  soliloquy  form  ruled  off  the 
American  stage  several  years  ago. 

In  the  last  act  the  hero  pretends  to  be  blotto 
(British  for  spiflicated),  so  that,  while  he  is  ap- 
parently dead  to  the  world,  he  can  eavesdrop  on  a 
dialogue  between  two  of  the  boche  plotters  and  ob- 
tain information  invaluable  to  England.  The 
boches  were  completely  deceived,  which  is  more  than 
can  be  said  of  the  audience. 

Wednesday,  September  19.     London. 

Took  a  walk  past  Westminster  Abbey  and  Buck- 
ingham Palace  and  found  they  looked  just  like  their 
post-card  pictures. 

It's  almost  as  bad  crossing  streets  here  as  in 
Paris.     The  taxis  don't  go  as  fast,  but  their  habit 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     161 

of  sticking  to  the  left  side  keeps  an  American  on 
what  are  known  as  tenterhooks. 

Mr.  O'Flaherty  loomed  up  at  noon  and  guided 
me  to  the  office  of  a  friend  with  money.  This  rara 
avis  honored  a  check  on  an  American  bank,  and  now 
I  think  there's  enough  cash  on  hand  to  see  me 
through.  The  only  trouble  is  that  my  education  in 
English  money  has  been  neglected  and  I  don't  know 
when  I'm  being  short-changed.  Constantly,  I  pre- 
sume. 

Living  conditions  here  have  it  on  those  in  Paris. 
There  are  no  meatless  days,  and  a  hot  bath  is  always 
available.  The  town  is  dark  at  night,  but  it's  said 
to  be  not  for  the  purpose  of  saving  fuel,  but  as  a 
measure  of  protection  against  air  raids. 

One  of  those  things  was  staged  last  week  and  a 
bomb  fell  uncomfortably  close  to  ye  hotel.  The 
dent  it  made  in  Mother  Earth  is  clearly  visible  to 
the  naked  eye.  I  trust  the  bombers  take  every  other 
week  off.  At  dinner  we  met  two  American  naval 
officers — a  captain  from  Baltimore  and  a  lieutenant 
from  Rockford,  which  is  in  Illinois.  What  they 
told  us  was  the  most  interesting  stuff  I've  heard 


162     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

yet.     But,  like  all  interesting  stuff,  it's  forbidden 
to  write  it. 

Thursday,  September  W.     London. 

The  American  naval  officers  took  me  to  luncheon. 
After  luncheon  I  went  to  the  American  consul's 
where  I  was  viseed.  Thence  to  the  Bow  Street  sta- 
tion for  final  registration. 

This  evening  to  The  Boy,  a  musical  play  which 
could  use  some  of  the  plot  so  prodigally  expended  in 
Seven  Days9  Leave.    But  the  music  isn't  bad. 

Friday,  September  21.     London. 

The  naval  officers  and  three  of  us  holdup  men  had 
a  bitter  argument  over  the  respective  merits  of 
Baltimore,  Dowagiac,  Rockford,  Niles,  and  What 
Cheer,  Iowa,  of  which  Mr.  O'Flaherty  is  a  native, 
and,  so  far  as  I  know,  the  only  one.  It  was  finally 
voted  to  award  What  Cheer  first  prize  for  beauty 
of  name,  Dowagiac  for  handsome  young  men,  Niles 
for  scenic  grandeur,  Rockford  for  social  gaieties, 
and  Baltimore  for  tunnels. 

I  wanted  to  do  some  work,  but  the  rest  of  the 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     163 

crowd  seemed  to  think  my  room  was  open  house  for 
the  balance  of  the  day,  and  here  they  stuck  despite 
all  efforts  to  oust  them. 

To-night  it  was  Chu  Chin  Chow  at  His  Majesty's 
Theater.  You  have  to  keep  going  to  theaters  in 
London.     They're  the  onty  places  that  are  lit  up. 

Chu  Chin  Chow  is  a  musical  comedy  based  on 
The  Forty  Thieves,  and  the  music,  according  to  our 
unanimous  opinion,  is  the  best  since  The  Merry 
Widow.  I  seem  to  have  resigned  as  war  correspond- 
ent to  accept  a  position  as  dramatic  critic.  But,  as 
Mr.  O'Flaherty  says,  there's  nothing  to  write  about 
the  war,  and  what  you  do  write  the  censors  massacre. 

Our  ship  still  thinks  it's  going  to  sail  to-morrow 
night,  and  the  train  leaves  at  nine-thirty  in  the 
morning.  I  am  to  be  convoyed  to  port  by  the  cap- 
tain and  the  lieutenant,  whose  holiday  is  over. 

Saturday,  September  22.     In  Bond. 

We're  anchored  in  the  middle  of  the  river  and 
have  no  apparent  intention  of  moving  to-night. 
And  everybody's  out  of  cigarettes,  and  it's  illegal 
to  sell  them  while  we're  in  bond,  whatever  that  may 


164     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

mean.  But  I  guess  I'd  rather  be  in  it  than  in  a 
spy's  cell,  which  seemed  to  be  my  destination  at  one 
time  to-day. 

The  United  States  naval  gentlemen  were  down 
at  the  train  early  and  commandeered  the  best  com- 
partment on  it.  They  had  saved  a  seat  for  me  and 
an  extra  one  on  general  principles.  This  was 
awarded  to  Mr.  Hanson,  one  of  the  active  members 
of  the  French  Line  conspiracy  which  caused  my 
arrest  in  Bordeaux.  I  hope  he's  seasick  all  the  way 
home. 

On  the  trip  up  from  London  we  scored  a  decisive 
verbal  victory  over  the  submarines  and  formulated 
the  terms  of  peace.  Captain  Baltimore  and  Lieu- 
tenant Rockf  ord  said  farewell  at  the  Liverpool  dock 
and  started  for  wherever  they  were  going.  We 
found  seats  in  the  inspection  room  and  waited.  Mr. 
Hanson  grew  impatient  at  length.  He  flashed  his 
passport,  a  diplomatic  one,  on  the  usher  and  was 
sent  through  in  a  hurry.  Not  so  with  this  well- 
known  suspect.  I  was  among  the  last  to  be  called. 
My  passport,  strangely  enough,  was  approved,  but 
the  baggage  examination  was  yet  to  come. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     165 

I  found  my  four  pieces — two  containers  of  clothes 
and  such,  a  typewriter,  and  the  ungainly  toy — and 
had  them  hoisted  on  to  the  inspection  counter.  The 
most  curious  man  I  ever  knew  went  at  them. 

The  typewriter  came  first. 

"What  is  this?"  he  asked  when  he  had  opened  the 
case. 

"A  typewriter." 

"WTiere  did  you  buy  it?" 

"In  Chicago." 

"What  do  you  use  it  for?" 

"For  typewriting." 

"Typewriting  what  ?" 

"Stuff  for  newspapers  and  magazines." 

"Pretty  handy,  isn't  it?" 

"Very." 

"Have  you  written  any  articles  over  here?" 

"Yes." 

"Where  are  they?" 

"Some  are  in  America  by  this  time;  others  are 
in  the  censors'  hands." 

He  wanted  to  know  what  publications  I  was  con- 
nected with,  and  I  told  him.      He  allowed  me  to 


166     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

close  up  the  typewriter  case,  and  next  launched  an 
offensive  against  a  young  trunk.  He  examined  my 
collars  one  by  one  and  found  them  all  the  same  size. 
He  came  upon  a  package  containing  five  or  six  hun- 
dred sheets  of  blank  copy  paper.  He  inspected 
every  sheet,  holding  many  of  them  up  to  the  light. 
He  gave  individual  attention  to  each  of  the  few  bits 
of  lingerie  the  Parisians  had  not  considered  worth 
keeping.  He  exhibited  an  amazing  interest  in  my 
other  suit.  He  fondled  a  beautiful  gray  sweater 
for  fully  five  minutes.  He  went  through  a  copy  of 
the  Chu  Chin  Cliow  score,  page  by  page.  I  won- 
dered he  didn't  sing  it.  Holding  out  only  the  blank 
paper,  he  repacked,  and  tackled  the  suit-case. 

He  counted  the  bristles  in  the  tooth-brush.  He 
found  two  French  dictionaries  and  a  French  gram- 
mar and  studied  them  for  approximately  one  semes- 
ter. He  opened  a  nest  of  shirts  and  handkerchiefs 
and  spread  them  out  for  a  thorough  review.  I 
should  hate  to  be  a  clerk  in  a  gents'  furnishing 
store  and  have  him  wished  on  me  as  a  customer. 

In  the  lower  southeast  corner  he  discovered  an 
unopened  box  of  shaving  cream.     As   every  one 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     167 

knows,  this  commodity  comes  in  a  tube,  which  is 
wrapped  in  transparent  paper,  and  the  tube,  thus 
wrapped,  is  contained  in  a  pasteboard  box  for  pro- 
tection or  something.  Old  Curiosity  opened  the 
box  and  extracted  the  tube.  He  gazed  at  it  through 
the  wrapper,  then  removed  the  wrapper  and  stared 
at  the  nude  tube. 

"Where  is  this  made?"  he  asked. 

"In  America.  It  comes  out  like  a  ribbon  and  lies 
flat  on  the  brush." 

Without  comment,  he  reclothed  the  tube  as  well 
as  he  could  in  its  mutilated  wrapper,  put  it  back  in 
its  box,  and  repacked  the  suit-case  and  shut  it. 

"Is  that  all  you  have?"  he  inquired. 

"No,"  I  said.  "There's  that  big  square  package 
containing  a  toy." 

Now  about  this  toy.  It's  a  complete  but  ridicu- 
lously impractical  system  of  trenches.  French  sol- 
diers of  leaden  composition  are  resisting  a  boche 
attack.  Some  are  supposed  to  be  throwing  bombs. 
Others  are  fighting  with  bayonets.  A  few  are  busy 
with  the  trench  guns.  There  are  threads  to  repre- 
sent barbed-wire  entanglements  and  a  few  Huns  en- 


168     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

meshed  in  them.  Other  Huns  are  prone,  the  victims 
of  the  sturdy  poilu  defense. 

The  package  had  been  opened  for  private  ex- 
hibition purposes  in  London,  and  as  I  am  an  awful 
washout  (British  slang)  at  doing  up  bundles,  I  had 
left  the  job  to  a  chambermaid,  who  had  discarded 
the  Parisian  wrapping  paper  and  used  some  on 
which  no  firm  name  appeared. 

Well,  Mr.  Question  Mark  now  laboriously  untied 
the  cord,  took  off  the  paper  and  the  cover  of  the 
box,  and  exposed  the  toy  to  the  public  and  official 
view.  Instantly  two  British  officers,  whom  we  shall 
call  General  Bone  and  Major  Thick,  flitted  up  to 
the  counter  and  peered  at  the  damning  evidence. 

"What  is  this  gentleman's  name?"  asked  the  gen- 
eral. 

He  was  told. 

"When  did  you  make  this  thing?"  he  demanded. 

"I  didn't,"  said  I.  "It  was  bought  in  a  shop  in 
Paris." 

"What  shop?" 

"You  can't  expect  a  person  to  remember  the  name 
of  a  Parisian  shop." 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     169 

"Where  is  the  firm's  name  on  the  paper?" 

I  explained  that  the  original  wrapper  had  been 
left  in  London. 

"What  is  your  business?"  demanded  the  major. 

"He's  a  correspondent,"  replied  the  inspector. 

There  ensued  the  old  familiar  cross-examination 
and  the  request  for  credentials  I  didn't  have.  The 
major  asked  the  inspector  whether  I  was  carrying 
any  papers. 

"These,"  said  the  latter,  and  showed  him  the  pile 
of  blank  copy  sheets. 

The  major  dived  for  it. 

"It's  all  blank  paper,"  said  the  inspector,  and 
the  major  registered  keen  disappointment. 

Next  to  my  suit-case  lay  a  bag  belonging  to  a 
gentleman  named  Trotter,  and  on  it  was  a  Japanese 
hotel  label.  The  general  glimpsed  it  and  turned 
on  me.     "When  were  you  in  Japan?"  he  asked. 

I  told  him  never. 

"That  piece  isn't  his,"  said  the  inspector.  "It 
belongs  to  a  Mr.  Trotter." 

"His  first  name  is  Globe,"  said  I,  but  it  was  a 
wild  pitch. 


170     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

The  major  and  the  general  had  a  whispered 
consultation.  Then  the  former  said:  "Well,  I 
guess  he's  all  right.     Let  him  go." 

Some  devil  within  me  suggested  that  I  say 
good-by  to  them  in  German,  which  I  learned  in  our 
high  school.  I  cast  him  out,  and  here  I  am,  aboard 
ship,  sitting  still  in  the  middle  of  the  river.  But 
I  don't  like  being  indefinitely  bottled  in  bond  and  I 
appeal  to  you,  Mr.  Captain — 

Take  me  somewhere  west  of  Ireland  where  they 

know  Fm  not  a  spy, 
Where  nobody  gazes  at  me  with  a  cold,  suspicious 

eye- 
To  the  good  old  U.  S.  A., 
Where  a  gent  can  go  his  way 
With  no  fear  of  being  picked  on  forty  thousand 

times  a  day. 


VIII 

BACK  IN  OLD  "O  SAY";  I  START  AN- 
SWERING QUESTIONS 

Sunday,  September  23.     At  Sea. 

A  card  on  the  wall  of  my  stateroom  says :  "Name 
of  Steward — Ring  Once.  Name  of  Stewardess — 
Ring  Twice."  If  they'll  give  us  deck  space,  we  can 
put  on  a  three  Ring  circus. 

The  ship  was  still  in  bond  when  we  awoke  this 
morning,  and  the  cheerful  rumor  floated  round  that 
she  sometimes  remained  in  harbor  a  week  before 
securing  the  Admiralty's  permission  to  sail.  But 
life-boat  drill  was  ordered  right  after  breakfast, 
and  Ring  Once  told  me  this  indicated  a  speedy  de- 
parture. My  boat  is  No.  9.  It's  a  male  boat  except 
for  one  Japanese  lady,  Mrs.  Kajiro  Come-here-o, 
whose  husband  is  also  of  our  select  crew. 

Our  drillmaster  advised  us  to  wear  plenty  of 

171 


172     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

heavy  clothes  till  we  were  out  of  the  danger  zone, 
advice  which  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  follow.  He 
said  five  blasts  of  the  whistle  would  mean  we  were 
attacked.  I  think,  however,  that  if  I  hear  as  many 
as  three  I'll  start  sauntering  toward  No.  9. 

At  noon  we  felt  the  throb  of  the  engines,  and 
forty  minutes  later  we  were  out  of  bond  and  able  to 
buy  cigarettes. 

Before  luncheon  we  were  assigned  to  our  perma- 
nent seats.  Naturally,  I  am  at  the  captain's  table, 
with  a  member  of  the  House  of  Commons,  a  mem- 
ber of  the  House  of  Lords,  a  plain  English  gentle- 
man, a  retiring  attache  of  our  embassy  in  London, 
his  journalistic  wife,  and  M.  de  M.  Hanson  of 
Washington  and  Peoria,  his  first  name  being  Mai 
de  Mer. 

The  talk  to-day  has  been  of  nothing  but  sub- 
marines. The  superstitious  call  attention  to  the  fact 
that  with  us  is  a  lady  who  was  on  the  Lusitania 
when  they  torpedoed  it.  To  offset  that,  however, 
we  carry  the  president's  youngest  son-in-law,  and 
surely  there  must  be  a  limit  to  boche  ruthlessness. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     173 

Monday,  September  %4.     At  Sea. 

Our  ship's  cargo  consists  principally  of  titles, 
rumors  and  celebrities.  Most  of  the  titles  belong  to 
members  of  the  British  Commission  which  is  coming 
over  to  talk  food  to  Mr.  Hoover.  But  there  is  also 
a  regular  baroness,  round  whom  the  young  bloods 
swarm  like  bees. 

The  rumors  deal  with  the  course  of  the  ship. 
Some  folks  say  we  are  going  up  Iceland  way ;  others 
that  we  are  headed  straight  south;  a  few  that  we 
are  taking  the  Kansas  City  route,  and  so  on.  The 
sun  refuses  to  come  out  and  tell  us  the  truth,  but 
there's  a  shore  line  in  sight  on  our  starboard,  and 
Ring  Once  tells  me  it's  the  east  coast  of  Ireland. 
That  ought  to  indicate  something  about  our  gen- 
eral direction,  but  I  don't  know  what.  Of  the 
celebrities,  most  of  them  are  American  journalists 
and  other  spies. 

Tuesday,  September  25.     At  Sea. 

Between  eight  and  nine  every  morning  the  bath 
steward,  one  Peter  James,  raps  on  the  door  and 


174     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

says :  "Your  bath  is  ready,  sir."  And  you  have  to 
get  up  and  go  and  take  it  for  fear  of  what  he'd 
think  of  you  if  you  didn't.  But  it's  pretty  tough 
on  a  man  who's  just  spent  a  month  in  France  and 
formed  new  habits. 

I  stayed  up  all  night  playing  bridge.  I  wanted 
to  be  sleepy  to-day  because  I  needed  a  hair  cut  and 
the  best  way  to  take  'em  is  unconsciously.  The 
scheme  was  effective,  and  I  didn't  hear  a  word  the 
barber  said. 

The  three  others  in  the  bridge  game  were  mem- 
bers of  the  British  Food  Commission.  Britishers,  I 
notice,  are  much  slower  at  bridge  than  we  are. 
They  think  a  long  while  before  they  make  a  play; 
then  they  make  the  wrong  play.  I  do  the  same 
thing  with  only  half  the  expenditure  of  thought 
and  time. 

Wednesday,  September  26.     At  Sea. 

Captain  Finch  appeared  at  breakfast  this  morn- 
ing. It  was  the  first  time  he  had  honored  us.  His 
presence  at  table,  I'm  told,  indicates  that  we  are 
out  of  the  danger  zone. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     175 

On  board  we  have  a  doctor,  a  D.  D.,  who  intends 
to  lecture  in  America  on  the  war.  He  happened  to 
be  at  our  table  in  the  lounge  this  afternoon.  Some 
one  asked  him  if  he  had  visited  the  front. 

"Indeed,  yes,"  he  said.  "I  was  there  less  than  a 
month  ago.  The  British  entertained  me  and  showed 
me  everything.  Why,  one  day  they  were  taking  me 
through  the  front-line  trenches  and  I  asked  how  far 
we  were  from  the  German  front  line.  'Hush,  Doc- 
tor,' said  one  of  the  officers.  'The  Germans  can 
hear  you  talking  now.  They're  only  twenty  yards 
away.' " 

I  asked  him  what  part  of  the  front  he'd  been  on. 
He  told  me.  It  was  exactly  the  same  front  I'd 
seen.  But  when  I  was  there — and  it  was  also  less 
than  a  month  ago — the  depth  of  No  Man's  Land 
was  two  hundred  yards,  and  there  weren't  any  non- 
combatants  batting  round  within  sixty  feet  of  a 
boche  trench.  No,  nor  a  British  trench  either.  I 
said  as  much  right  out  loud,  and  I'm  afraid  I've 
spoiled  his  trip. 

But  honest,  Doc,  somebody  was  kidding  you  or 
else  your  last  name  is  Cook. 


176     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 


Thursday,  September  27.  At  Sea. 


The  sea  was  calm,  the  day  was  fair. 
E'en  Mai  de  Mer  came  up  for  air. 


The  voyage  is  getting  sort  of  tiresome  to  us 
Americans.  For  the  British  it's  not  so  bad.  Their 
five  meals  per  day  break  the  monotony.  They 
breakfast  from  nine  to  ten,  lunch  from  one  to  two, 
tea  from  four  to  five,  dine  from  seven  to  eight,  and 
sup  from  eleven  on.  But  we  can't  stand  that  pace, 
and  have  to  waste  a  lot  of  time  reading. 

There  is  a  ship  library  full  of  fairly  good  stuff, 
but  by  far  the  most  interesting  matter  is  to  be 
found  in  a  paper  published  on  board  every  day. 
Its  title  is  The  Ocean  Times  and  the  Atlantic  Daily 
News.  It  contains  two  pages  of  news,  two  pages 
of  editorial  causerie,  one  of  them  in  French,  and 
four  pages  of  real  hot  stuff,  such  as  "Softness  and 
Grandeur.  A  Brief  Appreciation  of  a  Delightful 
Excursion  in  Norway";  "Chance  Meetings.  The 
Long  Arm  of  Coincidence  and  the  Charm  of  Sur- 
prise"; "The  Introduction  of  Electric  Tramways 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     177 

into  Cape  Town."  These  essays  and  articles  are 
boiler  plate,  as  we  j  ournalists  say,  and  we  find  them 
an  excellent  sedative. 

The  news  is  received  by  wireless  from  both  sides 
of  the  ocean.    To-day's  dispatches  from  Washing- 
ton fairly  made  our  hair  stand  on  end.     One  of 
them  said :    "The  decision  of  the  milk  dealers  here 
that  they  would  not  pay  more  than  thirty-two  cents 
per  gallon  for  milk  after  October  one  was  met  by 
a  counter-proposal  on  the  part  of  the  Maryland 
and  Virginia  Milk  Producers'  Association  last  night 
with  an  offer  to  fix  the  price  at  thirty-three  and  one- 
half  cents  per  gallon  instead  of  at  thirty-five  cents 
as  originally  planned."    Another  informed  us  that 
Brigadier-General  Somebody,  for  three  years  as- 
sistant to  the  Major-General  Commandant  at  the 
Marine  Corps  Headquarters,  had  been  ordered  to 
command  the  Marine  Cantonment  at  Somewhere, 
Virginia.    A  person  who  fails  to  get  a  thrill  out  of 
that  must  be  a  cold  fish.    But  I  can't  help  wishing 
they'd  let  us  know  when  and  where  the  world  series 
is  to  start. 


178     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

It  is  announced  that  Doc  Cook  will  preach  at  the 
ship's  service  Sunday  morning.  His  text,  no  doubt, 
will  be  "Twenty  Yards  from  the  German  Trenches." 

Saturday,  September  29.     At  Sea. 

Captain  Finch  says  we  will  reach  New  York 
Tuesday.  But  if  they  don't  quit  turning  the  clock 
back  half  an  hour  a  day  we'll  never  get  there. 

Sunday,  September  30.     At  Sea. 

The  doctor  preached,  but  disappointed  a  large 
congregation  with  a  regular  sermon. 

After  we  had  sung  God  Save  the  Kvng  and 
America,  I  came  to  my  stateroom  to  work  and  im- 
mediately broke  the  carriage  cord  on  my  typewriter. 
I  said  one  or  two  of  the  words  I  had  just  heard  in 
church;  then  borrowed  a  screw  driver  from  Ring 
Once  and  proceeded  to  dilacerate  the  machine.  It 
took  over  an  hour  to  get  it  all  apart  and  about  two 
hours  to  decide  that  I  couldn't  begin  to  put  it  to- 
gether again. 

I  went  on  deck  and  told  my  troubles  to  Mr.  Hol- 
lister  of  Chicago.     Mr.  Hollister  was  sympathetic 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     179 

and  a  life-saver.  He  introduced  me  to  a  young 
man,  named  after  the  beer  that  made  Fort  Wayne 
famous,  who  is  a  master  mechanic  in  the  employ  of 
the  Duke  of  Detroit.  The  young  man  said  he  had 
had  no  experience  with  typewriters,  but  it  was  one 
of  his  greatest  delights  to  tinker.  I  gave  him  leave 
to  gratify  his  perverted  taste  and,  believe  it  or 
not,  in  forty  minutes  he  had  the  thing  running, 
with  a  piece  of  common  binding  twine  pinch-hitting 
for  the  cord.  Then  I  went  entirely  off  my  head  and 
bought  him  wine. 

Monday ;  October  1.     Nearly  There. 

It's  midnight.  An  hour  ago  we  went  on  deck  and 
saw  the  prettiest  sight  in  the  world — an  American 
lighthouse.  First  we  felt  like  choking;  then  like 
joking.  Three  of  us — Mr.  and  Mrs.  P.  Williams 
and  I — became  extremely  facetious. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Williams,  "there's  '  'Tis  of 
Thee.'  " 

"Yes,"  said  her  husband,  "that  certainly  is  old 
<0  Say.'  " 


180     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

I've  forgotten  what  I  said,  but  it  was  just  as 
good. 

The  light — standing,  they  told  me,  on  Fire 
Island — winked  at  us  repeatedly,  unaware,  perhaps, 
that  we  were  all  married.  I'll  confess  we  didn't 
mind  at  all  and  would  have  winked  back  if  we  could 
have  winked  hard  enough  to  carry  nineteen  nautical 
miles. 

Ring  Once  was  waiting  at  the  stateroom  door  to 
tell  me  to  have  all  baggage  packed  and  outside  first 
thing  in  the  morning. 

"I'll  see  that  it's  taken  off  the  ship,"  he  said. 
"You'll  find  it  under  your  initial  on  the  dock." 

"What  do  you  mean,  under  my  initial?" 

He  explained  and  then  noticed  that  my  junk  was 
unlabeled.  I'd  worried  over  this  a  long  while. 
My  French  Line  stickers  had  not  stuck.  And  how 
would  New  Yorkers  and  Chicagoans  know  I'd  been 
abroad?    I  couldn't  stop  each  one  and  tell  him. 

The  trusty  steward  disappeared  and  soon  re- 
turned with  four  beautiful  labels,  square,  with  a  red 
border,  a  white  star  in  the  middle,  and  a  dark  blue 
L,  meaning  me,  in  the  middle  of  the  star. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     181 

"Put  those  on  so  they'll  stay,"  I  instructed  him. 
"There's  no  sense  in  crossing  the  ocean  and  then 
keeping  it  a  secret." 

Tuesday,  October  2.     A  Regular  Hotel. 

M.  de  M.  Hanson,  looking  as  if  he'd  had  just 
as  much  sleep  as  I,  was  in  his,  or  somebody  else's 
deck  chair,  reading  a  yesterday's  New  York  paper, 
when  I  emerged  to  greet  the  dawn. 

"I  don't  know  where  this  came  from,"  he  said, 
"but  it's  got  what  you  want  to  know.  The  series 
opens  in  Chicago  next  Saturday.  They  play  there 
Saturday  and  Sunday,  jump  back  to  New  Yrork 
Monday  and  play  here  Tuesday  and  Wednesday." 

"And,"  said  I,  "may  the  better  team  win — in  four 
games." 

We  were  anchored  in  the  harbor,  waiting  for  a 
pilot,  that  was,  as  usual,  late.  I  was  impatient  but 
M.  de  M.  didn't  seem  to  care.  He's  wild  about 
ocean  travel  so  long  as  it's  stationary. 

Presently  the  youngest  of  the  food  commis- 
sioners, one  Mr.  Bowron,  joined  us.    He  asked  the 


182     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

name  of  every  piece  of  land  in  sight.  We  answered 
all  his  questions,  perhaps  correctly. 

"That  one,"  said  M.  de  M.,  pointing,  "is  Staten 
Island.    Of  course  you've  heard  of  it." 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Mr.  Bowron. 

"What!"  cried  Mr.  Hanson.  "Never  heard  of 
Staten  Island!" 

"The  home  of  Matty  Mclntyre,"  I  put  in.  "One 
of  the  greatest  outside  lefts  in  the  history  of  soccer. 
He  played  with  the  Detroit  and  Chicago  elevens  in 
the  American  League." 

Mr.  Bowron  looked  apologetic. 

"And  in  that  direction,"  said  Mr.  Hanson,  point- 
ing again,  "is  Coney  Island,  where  fashionable 
New  York  spends  its  summers." 

"Except,"  said  I,  "the  aristocratic  old  families 
who  can't  be  weaned  away  from  Palisades  Park." 

Mr.  Bowron  interviewed  us  on  the  subject  of 
hotels. 

"There  are  only  two  or  three  first-class  ones,'' 
said  Mr.  Hanson.  "The  Biltmore's  fair.  It's  got 
elevators  and  running  hot  water." 

"But  no  electric  lights,"  I  objected. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     183 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Hanson.  "They  put  in 
electricity  and  set  the  meter  the  week  we  left." 

Breakfast  was  ready,  and  for  the  first  time  on  the 
trip  Mr.  Hanson  ate  with  a  confidence  of  the  future. 
For  the  first  time  he  ordered  food  that  was  good  for 
him.    Previously  it  hadn't  mattered. 

When  we  went  back  on  deck,  the  world's  largest 
open-face  clock  was  on  our  left,  and  on  our  right 
the  business  district  of  Pelham's  biggest  suburb. 
And  immediately  surrounding  us  were  Peter  James 
and  Ring  Once  and  the  lounge  steward  and  the 
deck  steward  and  the  dining-room  stewards — in 
fact,  all  the  stewards  we'd  seen  and  a  great  many  we 
Hadn't. 

"We're  trapped,"  said  Mr.  Hanson.  "Our  only 
chance  for  escape  is  to  give  them  all  we've  got. 
Be  ready  with  your  one-pounders  and  your  silver 
pieces." 

At  the  end  of  this  unequal  conflict — the  Battle 
of  the  Baltic — Rear- Admiral  Lardner's  fleet  was  all 
shot  to  pieces,  most  of  them  the  size  of  a  dime,  and 
when  Mr.  Brennan  of  Yonkers  announced  that  his 
car  would  meet  the  ship  and  that  he  would  gladly 


184     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

give  me  a  ride  to  my  hotel  I  could  have  kissed  him 
on  both  cheeks.  It  took  my  customs  inspector  about 
a  minute  to  decide  that  I  was  poor  and  honest.  The 
baroness,  though,  when  we  left  the  dock,  was  en- 
gaged in  argument  with  half  a  dozen  officials,  who 
must  have  been  either  heartless  or  blind. 

Mr.  Brennan's  chauffeur  drove  queerly.  He  in- 
sisted on  sticking  to  the  right  side  of  the  street,  and 
slowed  up  at  busy  intersections,  and  he  even  paid 
heed  to  the  traffic  signals.  In  Paris  or  London  he'd 
have  been  as  much  at  home  as  a  Mexican  at  The 
Hague. 

The  hotel  gave  me  a  room  without  making  me 
tell  my  age  or  my  occupation  or  my  parents'  birth- 
place. The  room  has  a  bath,  and  the  bath  has  two 
water  faucets,  one  marked  hot  and  one  marked  cold, 
and  when  you  turn  the  one  marked  hot,  out  comes 
hot  water.  And  there's  no  Peter  James  around  to 
make  you  bathe  when  you  don't  feel  the  need. 

The  room  has  a  practical  telephone  too,  and 
pretty  soon  I'm  going  to  start  calling  up  acquaint- 
ances with  kind  hearts  and  good  cooks.  The  first 
who  invites  me  to  dinner  is  in  tough  luck. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     185 

Friday,  October  5,     Chicago. 

"Miner"  Brown,  the  great  three-fingered  pitcher, 
used  to  be  asked  the  same  questions  by  every  one 
to  whom  he  was  introduced.  As  a  breath-saving 
device  he  finally  had  some  special  cards  printed.  On 
one  side  was  his  name.  On  the  other  the  correct 
replies : 

1.    Because  I  used  to  work  in  a  mine. 

%    It  was  cut  off  in  a  factory  when  I  was  a  kid. 

3.  At  Terre  Haute,  Ind. 

4.  Rosedale,  right  near  Terre  Haute. 

5.  Not  a  bit. 

When  he  left  home  in  the  morning  he  was  always 
supplied  with  fifty  of  these  cards,  and  sometimes 
he  got  rid  of  the  whole  supply  before  bedtime. 

I  departed  from  New  York  Wednesday  night. 
Our  train  picked  up  the  New  York  Baseball  Club  at 
Philadelphia.  I  was  acquainted  with  about  fifteen 
of  the  twenty  (odd)  athletes.  Every  one  of  the 
fifteen,  from  Mr.  Zimmerman  down,  shot  the  same 
queries  at  me.  Every  person  I've  encountered  here 
at  home  too,  and  usually  in  the  same  order : 


186     MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE 

1.  How'd  you  like  it  over  there? 

2.  Did  you  see  any  subs? 

3.  Did  you  see  any  fighting? 

4.  Could  you  hear  the  guns  ? 

5.  How  close  did  you  get  to  the  front? 
6=  Did  you  see  any  American  soldiers  ? 

!7.  How  many  men  have  we  got  over  there? 

8.  How  are  things  in  Paris  ? 

$.  Were  you  in  England? 

10.  How  are  things  in  London  ? 

11.  Were  you  in  any  air  raids? 
1£.  How  long  is  it  going  to  last? 

Now  truth  may  be  stranger  than  fiction,  but  it's 
also  a  whole  lot  duller.  Most  of  my  answers  have 
very  evidently  bored  my  audiences  to  the  point  of 
extinction.  Yet  I  hesitate  to  start  weaving  the  well- 
known  tangled  web.  I'd  be  .bound  to  trip  in  it 
sooner  or  later.  Last  night,  in  desperation,  I 
drafted  a  card  along  the  line  of  Mr.  Brown's.  But 
it  lacked  wallop,  as  you  can  see  for  yourself. 

1.  Oh,  pretty  well. 

2.  No. 

3.  A  little. 


MY  FOUR  WEEKS  IN  FRANCE     187 

4.  Oh,  yes. 

5.  A  mile  and  a  half,  on  the  observation  hill. 

6.  Oh,  yes. 

7.  That's  supposed  to  be  a  secret. 

8.  Pretty  gay. 

9.  Yes. 

10.  All  right,  so  far  as  I  could  see. 

11.  No. 

12.  I  don't  know. 


The  End 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

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